e>. 


^f^^^^- 
*.^. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


25 
2.2 


U2,        2.0 


1.8 


i-4    IIIIII.6 


V] 


<9> 


A 


y 


/^ 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  Institut  canadien  de  microreproductions  historiques 

1980 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


T 


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D 
D 


Coloured  covers/ 
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Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommag^^e 


□    Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurde  et/ou  pellicul6e 


D 


D 


D 


Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


□    Coloured  maps/ 
Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 

0    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  do  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  hieue  ou  noire) 

□    Coloured  plates  and/or  Illustrations/ 
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D 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Relid  avec  d'autres  documents 


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along  interior  margin/ 

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I      I    Coloured  pages/ 


D 


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obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


T 

P 
o 

fi 


G 
b 
tl 

si 
o 
fi 
si 
o 


T 
si 

T 

M 
IV 

di 

61 

b( 
ri< 
re 
m 


rri    This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Iv  I    Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqui  ci-dessous. 


10X 


14X 


18X 


22X 


26X 


30X 


12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
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The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  —^^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
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la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  tolle 
empreinte. 

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dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — »-  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmds  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichd,  il  est  film6  d  partir 
de  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


1 

2 

3 

1  2  3 

4  5  6 


.7% 


i 


THE 
THE 


S  O  TT  (r      O  17  819.3    > 
^^  ^  ^  V^  ^  ^  D9I2S  / 


CORRELATED  STORIES 

OF  THE  NEW  YORK 

SYRIAN  QUARTER 


,4> 


?-  MKi 


'/// 


BY, 


NORMAN 
DUNCAN  )'> 


NEW  YORK 
McCLURE,  PHILIJPS 
^  COMPANY 
1900 


Copyright,   1900,  by 
McCLURE,    PHILLIPS    &   CO. 


275a 


« 


K*.-M    #«*■•■'*   m»-^ 


CONTKNTS 

Page 

The  Lamp  of  Liberty  i 

In  the  Absence  of  Mrs.  Halloran  27 

The  Greatest  Player  in  All  the  World  51 

For  the  Hand  of  Haleem  77 

The   Under-Shepherd  107 

The  Spirit  of  Revolution  137 


...*,• .  j^  jr,g 


'.J>«  »»4.»«--*^-^.4l 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIBERTY 


MOTHER 

Here  is  the  Flower  of 
YOUR   LOVE 


•i 


11 


.* 


PREFACE 


In  the  name  of  God,  the  most  merciful, 
the  all-compassionate :  There  are  many  mys- 
teries. If  the  Revealed  be  as  a  grain  of  sand^ 
the  Hidden  is  as  a  great  mountain ;  yea,  even, 
the  sum  of  man's  knowledge  is  a  little  star 
twinkling  in  the  void,  which  is  the  unknow- 
able. .  .  .  The  Innermost  Heart  of  man 
is  a  mystery.  The  Eye  is  its  Voice,  else  how 
speaketh  it  ?  Verily,  the  tongue  of  man  is  a 
poor  member,  and  perverse ;  and  fulfilleth  its 
purpose  not  half  so  well  as  a  single  hair  of 
the  lash  of  his  eye.  .  .  .  By  the  Deep, 
and  by  Him  who  poured  it  forth ;  by  the 
Dome,  and  by  Him  who  raised  it,  these  things 
are  mysteries. —  From    the   first   writings   of 

Khalil  Khayat. 

N.  D. 

Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 
June,  1900. 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIBERTY 


HE  panes  were  grimy 
even  to  dead  translu- 
cence  with  the  dirt  of 
seven  years.  The  sanc- 
tum was  in  keeping — 
Httered,  dusty,  empty 
of  energy.  For  just 
seven  years  SaHm  Shofi 
had  published,  daily,  Kawkab  Elhorriah — 
which,  translated  from  the  Arabic,  is  Star  of 
Liberty — in  the  old  yellow  building  near 
South  Street.  The  outer  air  was  balmy 
enough;  so  Khalil  Khayat,  the  editor,  seek- 
ing the  comfort  and  inspiration  of  the  spring 
sunshine  in  its  fulness,  raised  the  sash.  He 
had  never  said :  "I  cannot  see  the  sky  for 
the  dirt  on  the  panes,  Salim.  Would  the  cost 
of  cleaning  be  very  great  ?"  He  had  patiently 
raised  the  sash;  for  this  is  the  way  of  the 
Syrian:  day  after  day  to  step  aside,  rather 
than  stoop  once  to  lift  the  stone  off  the  path. 
Khayat  turned  indecisively  from  the  page  on 
his  desk  to  steal  a  little  dream  from  out  of 
the  window;  and  was  distressed  until  he  lost 
thought  of  the  thieving,  for  the  day  was 
drawing  on,  and  there  was  still  much   to  be 

I 


I 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 


written  concerning  Oppression, fortheawaken- 
ing  of  the  people  o(  Washington  Street.  To 
preoccupy  him  there  was  a  jagged  stretch  of 
blue  sky;  laden  docks  and  thin  spars  tangled 
of  many  ships;  a  patch  of  river,  scattering 
the  sunlight;  traffic  turbulent  in  the  street; 
the  smoke  of  the  making  of  things,  hanging 
darkly  over  the  opposite  city;  cry  and  creak- 
ing, rattle  and  roar.  But  the  sum  of  all  was 
confusion  and  hurry;  so  the  scrawny  old  tree 
that  pushed  up  from  the  barren  atmosphere 
of  the  curb  and  shook  its  shaggy  head  under 
his  window,  easily  distracted  Khayat'sthoughts 
to  the  lawn  and  ivy  and  gray  stone  of  Ox- 
ford, and  to  the  glorified  days  when  his  name 
was  set  in  the  lecture-table  of  the  Department 
of  Oriental  Languages,  in  the  manner  follow- 
ing: "K.  Khayat  (for  Professor  Marmouth), 
Arabic  for  Beginners.  Fee  j[2.  Mondays 
lo-ii,  Thursdays  lo-ii,  Saturdays  2-3." 
These  Oxford  days  were  such  days  as  may  be 
lived  over  again  for  solace.  As  ii:  is  written. 
Dream  the  evil  days  through !  Khayat  was 
a  refugee;  he  once  told  me  he  had  shed 
guilty  Mohammedan  blood  for  his  sister's 
sake.  That  was  a  past  forgotten — save  on 
nights  of  high  wind  and  low,  scudding  clouds. 


i 

i 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIBERTY 

There  was  another  to  dream  about:  a  year's 
companionship  with  scholars.  Ecstasy  that 
had  indubitably  been !  Inalienable  experi- 
ences !  Even  as  it  is  written,  Dream  the  evil 
days  through !  Lost  to  the  stuffy  untidiness 
within  and  the  yellowed  c>y  without,  Khayat 
took  an  experience  from  his  store,  and  related 
it  to  himself,  as  though  to  another,  for  his 
own  delectation — smiling  wistfully  the  while. 
"Once  when  I  was  een  Oxford,"  he  told 
himself,  using  the  English,  as  he  often  did, 
for  practice,  "I  was  eenvited  to  tea  by  a 
gentleman.  Pro-fess-or  Highmead  eet  was — 
of  the  Department  of  Math-e-mat-eek.  Very 
kin'  gentleman  he  was.  Ah,  they  are  so  good 
— so-o  good  to  foreigners — een  England  ! 
They  care  not  for  money — no,  nor  for  dress; 
but  onlee  for  knowledge.  An'  one  gentleman 
he  say,  'Meester  Khayat,  what  do  you  theenk 
of  Lord  Nelson.'*'  I  answer  to  heem,  sayin', 
'He  was  the  greatest  Admiral  of  all  the 
world.  I  would  like  to  have  been  heem.' 
An'  Mees  Upworth,  a  ladee  not  young — no, 
not  young,  but  so-o  sweet — Mees  Aleece 
Upworth  she  laugh;  an'  the  gentleman  say: 
'But  he  had  onlee  one  arm.'  'Ah,  eet  ees 
true,'  I  reply,  'he  had  onlee  one  arm;  but  I 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

would  geeve  both  arms  an'  my  two  eyes  to 
make  such  serveece  for  the  state.'  An'  he 
say,  jokin':  'What  do  you  theenk  of  the 
Dook  of  Wellin'ton — he  had  onlee  one 
eye?'  T  beg  your  pardon,  Sair  Arthur,'  I 
answer  to  heem,  *you  mus'  be  jokin'.  The 
Dook  of  Wellin'ton  had  hees  two  eyes.'  An' 
I  laugh.  'No,  no,*  he  say,  'he  had  but  one 
eye  onlee.'  Then  he  weenk.  'So,*  I  say,  'you 
are  right,  Sair  Arthur.  The  Dook  of  Well- 
in'ton have  but  one  eye.  He  was  a  soldier — 
not  a  politician.'  Mees  Upworth — ho,  she 
laugh;  an'  the  blood  eet  come  queek  to  Sair 
Arthur's  face.  Oh,  eet  was  ver-ee  good — 
so-o  good !  Ha,  ha  1"  Khayat  clapped  his 
hands  and  laughed  like  a  gleeful  child 
hugged  rapturously  for  a  pretty  accomplish- 
ment. 

Then,  soberly,  he  put  the  retrospect  from 
him;  and  bent  over  his  desk  to  continue  the 
writing  of  a  didactic  "leetle  ro-mance"  called 
The  Sultan  at  the  Bar  of  Civilization,  that 
he  might  serve  his  master  faithfully,  and  his 
God,  and  the  people.  The  story  was  more  to 
him  than  the  somnolent  smell  of  spring  and 
the  dreams  it  mothered.  He  thought  he  had 
been  called  of  God  to  foster  the  patriotism  of 

4 


i:> 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIBERTY 

the  people.  It  was  written  for  them — that 
they  might  arise,  they,  their  children  or  their 
children's  children.  And  they  were  reading  it 
in  the  restaurants,  from  night  to  night,  with 
hot  blood  in  their  throats:  this  he  observed, 
to  his  inspiration,  from  his  corner  in  the  back 
room  of  Fiani's  pastry  shop,  where  he  drank 
his  coffee  every  evening.  Thanks  be  to  God, 
the  Giver  of  Gifts  of  Mind!  Men  said  to 
him:  "Why  do  you  care  for  the  people  of 
Washington  Street — these  men  from  the 
mountains — these  p'.gs?  Have  they  minds? 
Have  they  hearts!  Will  they  profit?  Will 
they  give  you  any  thanks?  Are  they  not  like 
feathers  in  the  wind?  Is  not  Money  more  to 
them  than  Patriotism?"  These  men  were  wise; 
but  Khayat,  answering,  said:  "A  field  of  grain 
is  from  the  seed  of  a  sheaf"  The  story,  then, 
was  more  to  him  than  any  other  thing.  What 
else  he  wrote  he  dubbed  affectionately  This 
or  That  in  his  naive  way.  The  story  he  dig- 
nified; it  was  to  him  a  Match  for  the  Lamp 
of  Liberty. 

"I  have  written  of  the  shedding  of  the  inno- 
cent blood,"  he  thought.  "The  people  know 
the  crime.  Now  I  must  summon  the  Mur- 
derer. Abdul  Hamid — the    time  is  at  hand!" 

5 


\A 


I''      ! 


Tin.  SOUL  OK  riiK  strki:t 

Khayat  laughed,  and  smoothed  his  grizzled 
mustache,  and  snuggled  close  to  the  desk. 
Me  was  obliviously  content  in  the  thing  he 
was  to  do. 

"Now  the  Sheikh  of  Civilization,"  he  wrote, 
"standing  on  the  highest  peak  of  the  Alps, 
wrapped  in  a  striped  mantle  of  many  jewel- 
decked  folds,  sounded  a  blast  on  his  silver 
horn.  Swift  as  the  echo  there  came,  flying, 
Enlightenment,  with  her  sisters.  Justice  and 
Virtue;  and  the  sisters  said:  'Peace  be  unto 
you,  O  Venerable  One!'  *And  the  Sheikh 
answered:  'Peace  be  unto  you!'  Now  the 
Sheikh  fell  silent;  and  at  last  he  said: 
'Hie  you,  three  sisters,  to  Constantinople,  to 
the  court  of  Abdul  Hamid,  Sultan  of  Turkey, 
to  inform  him  that  the  people  of  Armenia 
have  delivered  to  me  a  charge  against  him. 
Warn  him  to  retain  eminent  counsel,  that  he 
may  worthily  be  defended  in  my  court;  for 
seven  days  hence  shall  judgment  be  de- 
livered in  his  case.'  Straight  did  Enlight- 
enment, with  her  sisters,  fly  away;  and  they 
come  to  Constantinople,  to  the  palace  of  the 
Sultan,  to  the  court  of  Abdul  Hamid,  and 
found  him  whom  they  sought,  sitting  on  a 
throne,  in  the  company   of  many    beautiful 

6 


I  Ml-:  LAMI*  OF   LIBKRTY 

young  ladies.  Now  when  iMiHghtcniiR'nt, 
with  her  sisters,  Justice  and  Virtue,  stood  he- 
fore  Ahdul  Hamid,  he  was  ashamed.  But 
iMihghtenment  said  to  him:  'Feace  be  unto 
you,  O  Excellent  King!*  And  he  answered: 
'Peace  he  unto  you,  Beautiful  Ones!'  Then 
did  Enlightenment  repeat  to  him  the  message; 
and  Abdul  Hamid,  rising  from  his  throne, 
answered  proudly:  'Who  is  this  Civilization 
that  he  presumes  to  set  himself  up   as  judge 

over  me?  And  who '" 

Salim  Shofi  came  in — stealthily,  as  of  nature. 
He  sat  down  without  a  word — being  care- 
ful as  to  the  coat-tails  of  his  gaudy  ready- 
made  coat — and  fixed  his  greasy  eyes  on  a 
knot-hole  in  the  floor.  This  may  be  written 
of  Shofi:  The  children  of  the  Quarter  made 
way  for  him;  for  they  had  learned  that  he  was 
mercilessly  quick  with  hand  and  foot.  His 
was  the  right  to  enter  stealthily,  or  any  other 
way  he  pleased;  for  his  was  Kawkah  Elhor- 
riahj  and  his — old  Khayat.  He  had  bought 
the  newspaper  because  he  thought  it  would 
be  profitable  to  be  a  political  influence — to 
double-deal  with  the  Consul  and  the  people; 
and  he  had,  by  chance,  entered  into  posses- 
sion of  the  editor    on   a  sultry  night,  when 

7 


,« „ 


I 


THi:  SOUL  OF  THI<:   STRKKT 

supper  and  bed  were  not  to  be  had  for 
nothing  in  Washington  Street.  Khayat  was 
hungry  and  lonely  and  a  stranger  then;  and 
at  all  times  he  was  afraid  of  the  world,  so  it 
had  been  easy  to  agree  for  him  at  a  weekly 
wage  of  seven  dollars.  Now  Shofi  crept  in  on 
kitten's  feet;  but  Khayat,  his  servant,  was 
neither  dreaming  at  the  window  nor  lost  to 
the  day's  countless  little  duties  in  the  seduc- 
tive black  book  wherein  are  contained  the 
writings  of  Abo  Klola  Klmoarri.  It  chanced 
that  his  eyes  were  crawling  over  the  page 
with  his  pencil-point;  and  he  was  safely  sit- 
ting on  the  big,  black  book.  Shofi  had  to 
swallow  the  brusque  words  that  were  on  his 
tongue's  tip. 

"May  God  give  you  happiness  this  day, 
Salim,"  Khayat  said,  turning.  He  bowed 
where  he  sat — asserting  the  royalty  of 
knowledge;  and  his  smile  was  such  as  men 
wear  to  win  children.  "Happiness,"  he  added, 
"in  abundant  measure." 
The  interruption  was  distressful.  The  eyes 
of  Khayat's  imagination  were  open;  his 
fingers  were  tingling  for  the  pencil.  The 
seizure  of  the  Sultan  by  the  messengers  of 
Civilization,  his  abjection   of  dread,  the   ut- 

8 


( ' 


II. 


THK  LAMP  OF  LIBKRTY 

tcrances  of  Justice,  the  conviction  and  last 
wail  to  the  All-Compassionate — all  were  then 
known  to  K  hay  at;  and  the  day  was  passing. 
But  when  had  the  old  scholar  failed  in  cour- 
tesy? The  Ouarter  cannot  answer. 
Shofi  lowered  at  his  shiny  shoes.  His  servant's 
condescension  was  objectionable  to  him; 
for  in  his  own  estimation  Shofi  was  a 
power,  so  C(>nstitnted  by  various  posses- 
sions— of  which,  it  may  be  said,  learning 
was  not  one.  At  last  he  responded  sourly: 
"May  he  fight  for  you  tooth  and  nail." 
"If  it  please  you,  Salim,"  said  Khayat  with 
ingenuous  indulgence,  "the  salutation  is  not 
well  spoken.  Tooth  and  nail  of  God!  They 
speak  so  only  in  Cairo;  and  there  they  prosti- 
tute the  dear  Arabic  to  all  manner  of  ex- 
travagances. Merely  'And  to  you'  is  the 
classic,  Salim." 

"Huh!"  ejaculated  Shofi  contemptuously.  He 
looked  Khayat  over — with  something  of  the 
pride  of  possession  in  the  scrutiny—  and 
continued:  "You're  mv  editor.  That's  all 
you  get  paid  for." 

Now  Khayat  did  not  observe  the  sarcastic 
inflection.  His  reply  came  quickly,  with  a 
kindly  smile  and  a  deprecating  gesture  of  his 

9 


' 


1.(1 


THi:  SOUL  OF  THi:   STREET 

lean,  brown  hand:  "Oh,  Salim,  excellent 
master,  thank  me  for  nothing!  God  favored 
me  with  opportunities.  Shall  I  therefore 
hoard  knowledge?  Shall  I  put  a  price  on  so 
small  a  teaching  when  my  stomach  is  full  ? 
Ah,  I  would  do  as  much  for  the  enemy  of 
my  mother;  for,  so  doing," — and  here 
Khayat  laughed  outright — "1  should  serve 
the  Language  Beautiful.  No,  Salim,  friend 
and  master,  1  am  but  the  son  of  a  poor  gold- 
smith, and " 

"I  say  you're  not  paid  for  professoring  me," 

interrupted  Shofi.  The  words  came  out  like 

the    blows    of  a    hammer  as    the  carpenter 

drives  the  nail  home. 

"Excuse    me,    Salim,  for  pointing  out  that 

you  cannot  form  the  verb  from  the  noun  so," 

said  Khayat,  still   mistaking  the  significance 

of   the    inflection.     There   was    a    touch    of 

tenderness  in  his  earn'^stness — a  broadening 

sweetness  in  his  smile. 

"Bass   baqua ! ''    screamed   Shofi.    This  is  a 

brutal  vulgarity  for  "Stop!"  and  hardly  to  be 

translated. 

Khayat  cowered  from  the  words — even  jerked 

his  head  to  one  side;  in  so  far,  they  had   the 

physical  effect  of  a  blow  aimed  straight  from 

lO 


THE  LAMP  OK  LIBl.RTY 

the  shoulder.  He  had  mistaken  sarcasm  for 
appreciation — he  was  humiliated;  his  friendly 
criticism  had  given  pain — this  was  the  greater 
regret.  He  was  crushed,  like  a  child  impatient- 
ly cuffed  for  mischief  done  through  love.  He 
w^t.  a  child — gentle  old  Khayat!  And  more- 
over, since,  as  1  have  said,  he  was  afraid  of 
the  world,  a  picture  of  himself  took  form  in 
his  mind:  an  old,  gaunt  man,  in  tattered 
brown  clothes,  pressing  timidly  against  the 
window  of  a  pastry-cook's  shop,  looking 
wistfully  at  the  fresh  haklawa  and  great, 
round  cakes  of  bread — pressing  very  close  to 
get  out  of  the  way  of  the  crowd  that  was 
rushing  from  its  work  to  its  home  and  its 
supper  and  its  bed.  He  had  a  great  fear  of 
idleness  and  the  streets,  had  Khayat. 
"Here — what's  this?"  asked  Shofi.  He  had 
picked  up  the  half-written  page  from  the 
desk,  and  was  looking  at,  the  shadow  of 
impotent  curiosity  over  his  handsome,  full- 
featured  face. 

Khayat  giggled  nervously.     He  looked   up 
confidently    enough.     He  was  sure    of  the 
story;  sure  that  it  was  a   good    story,    and 
made  him  valuable  to  his  emplover. 
"It  is  the  little  story,"  he  said,  "The  Sultan 

1 1 


THK  SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 


at  the  Bar  of  Civilization."  He  had  an 
anxious  hand  waiting  for  the  return  of  the 
page.  Quick  as  the  reference  to  it,  his  eyes 
had  snapped  dehghtedly.  Now  he  had  almost 
forgotten    the    rebuff.     "The    summons   for 

trial  is  now  given,  and  I  am  about  to " 

Shofi  crumpled  the  page  to  a  ball  and  tossed 
it  out  of  the  window  with  an  ejaculation  of 
contempt.  Khayat  followed  its  flight,  and 
saw  it  caught  by  the  wind  and  swirled  into 
the  topmost  branches  of  the  scrawny,  shaggy- 
headed  old  tree  that  still  swished  its  new- 
grown  leaves  in  the  cheerful  sunlight,  though 
it  had  just  taken,  as  to  a  grave,  a  little 
story.  The  rain  would  fall  on  the  crumpled 
ball,  he  thought,  to  its  unfolding  and  the 
obliteration  of  the  written  words.  Rain  and 
sun  and  wind  would  bedraggle  and  rot  it, 
and  the  thoughts  of  a  man  would  pass  into 
nothingness.  Shofi  was  suddenly  become 
another  in  his  servant's  sight — a  power,  in- 
deed— an  illiterate,  old  Khayat  thought,  who 
could  kick  a  prop  from  under  the  crumbling 
patriotism  of  a  people. 

"Abo-Samara  held  the — thing  up  to  scorn 
in  Fiani's  place  last  night.  Am  I  to  be  so 
shamed  by  a — fakir  like  him  ?"  Shofi  asked 

12 


THE  LAMP  OF   LIBERTY 

sharply.  "The  story  is — is  stuff." 
Hard  masters  are  up  to  many  tricks;  they 
distribute  praise  and  sneers  discreetly;  a 
worker  who  is  afraid  of  the  world  is  best 
kept  to  heel  with  a  whip.  Shofi  knew  how  to 
deal  with  his  prize  possession.  Khayat 
flushed  and  gripped  the  desk,  and  fiushed 
deeper;  and  turned  his  head  to  keep  the 
sight  of  his  agony  from  Shofi.  Abo-Samara's 
words  were  of  no  weight,  as  all  men  knew; 
but  they  had  raised  a  ghost — a  comparison 
of  the  little  story  with  the  writings  of  Abo 
Elola  Elmoarri.  Now  Khayat  had  been 
brought  to  a  condition  of  meet  humility;  so 
Shofi  was  ready  to  proceed. 
"Write  no  more  of  the  story,"  he  said.  "It 
is  no  damn  good.  Now  it  is  rent  day  and  I 
must  go  about  my  other  business.  Stop 
writing  about  the  Sultan — leave  him  alone 
for  awhile.  Shall  we  forever  speak  against  this 
man  ?  He  is  not  such  a  bad  king.  What  has 
he  done  to  me  that  I  should  knock  him 
from  his  throne?  Are  not  the  little  lead 
things  mine  to  speak  as  I  shall  say?  So-ho ! 
Kawkab  Elhorriah  gives  me  no  health" — 
Shofi  had  heard  MacNamara  of  the  corner 
saloon  say  that  he  was  not  in  politics  for  his 

13 


\\ 


W 


I 

V,: 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

health — "and  I  must  get  something.  The 
story  had  stirred  the  people.  The  Minister 
at  Washin'ton  has  heard.  Hadji,  the  Consul's 
servant,  came  to  me  last  night," — Shofi 
puffed  out  his  chest — "knowing  me  for  a  man 
of  influence.  It  must  stop.  And  now,  Khali  1 
Khayat,  may  God  give  you  health  this  day 
and  all  the  days  of  many  years  to  come." 
What  does  a  timorous  man  do  when  he 
knows,  of  a  sudden,  that  he  must  give  up 
his  great  purpose  or  his  living?  He  cries 
to  himself:  "Oh,  why?  "  Khayat  was  blind  to 
intrigue;  but  these  words  were  luminous.  In 
a  little  while,  he  understood. 
"Salim,"  he  asked  deliberately,  bitterly, 
"what  price  did  the  Consul  put  upon  your 
honor?" 

"Sh-h-hh ! "   exclaimed   Shofi,   looking  fear- 
fully about,  as  though  an  enemy  might  be 
concealed  under  the  table  or  have  his  ear  to 
the  key-hole.    "We  are  not    in  the   desert. 
Sh-h-hh,  in  God's  name!" 
"How  much  was  it,  Salim  ?  " 
"Whisper — whisper,  Khalil!   Sufficient — suf- 
ficient, it  was." 
"How  many  dollars?" 
"Khalil,  you  are  my  friend — not  my  servant, 

14 


It 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIBERTY 

Let  this  be  a  secreL  between  you  and  me," 
Shofi  whispered,  his  mouth  close  to  Khayat's 
f,a,r.  "Four — hun-dred — dollars^  it  was!" 
Shofi  drew  back  to  see  Khayat  stare. 
"The  Arabs  say,"  observed  the  old  man 
calmly,  "that  the  devil  keeps  a  price-list  of 
men's  souls.  It  may  be  so." 
"And  now,  peace  be  with  you,  Khalil,"  said 
Shofi  briskly.  "I  must  collect  my  rents." 
He  buttoned  his  top  coat  and  moved  toward 
the  door. 

"Tarry,  Salim,"  said  Khayat.  "The  day  is 
long."  There  was  a  certain  easy  authority  in 
his  tone  and  gesture.  He  did  not  observe 
whether  or  not  Shofi  waited;  but  let  his 
head  sink  on  his  breast  and  closed  his  eyes. 
"I  have  something  to  think  about,"  he 
added,  and  smiled. 

Let  it  be  said  again:  Khayat  was  afraid  of 
men.  He  knew  that  the  street  was  about  to 
swallow  him.  That  was  now  inevitable,  and, 
therefore,  not  bothersome.  He  thought  not 
at  all;  or,  if  he  thought,  it  was  in  a  fleeting 
way  of  the  crumpled  little  story:  cf  the 
chance  of  climbing  to  its  rescue,  even  to  the 
slenderest  branch  of  the  old  tree;  of  smooth- 
ing it  out  and  neatly  folding  it,  that  it  might 

15 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 


1 1  > 


H 


be  put  away  snug  in  the  big,  black  pocket- 
book  upstairs,  safe  from  rotting;  of  giving  it 
the  fulness  of  life — some  day.  It  was  a 
story  to  live — that  dear  little  one.  But  rain 
and  wind  were  implacable.  The  people  would 
be  sorry  to  hear  of  its  death. 
In  this  abstraction  Khayat  got  up  and  put  on 
his  old  brown  coat,  never  looking  at  Shofi; 
and  pulled  his  rusty  hat  firmly  to  the  back 
of  his  head  with  both  hands,  as  always;  and 
tucked  the  Abo  Elola  Klmoarri  under  his 
arm;  and  looked  about  the  room  with  tender 
regret — at  the  littered,  dusty  desk,  at  the 
garish  couch  that  stretched  its  uneven  length 
against  the  opposite  wall,  at  the  book-shelves 
in  the  corner,  with  their  tattered  occupants 
— like  a  man  bound  from  home  on  a  long 
journey.  Then  he  put  Elmoarri  on  the  desk 
and  went  to  the  book-shelves;  and  touched 
some  books  fondly  with  his  finger-tip,  and 
dusted  some  on  his  sleeve,  and  read  the 
titles  of  all,  and  made  the  shelves  neat.  In 
this  he  seemed  nearly  to  forget  that  he  was 
to  go.  Shofi  heard  him  mutter  caressingly 
over  a  book  here  and  a  book  there;  and  saw 
him  take  a  little  one  down  and  slip  it  into 
his  pocket,  and  try  vainlv  to  put  a  larger  one 

i6  ' 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIBERTY 


In  the  other  pocket  and  then  return  it  to  its 
place  with  a  sigh;  and  Shofi  conjectured  that 
the  old  man  had  not  the  courage  to  leave 
them. 

Khayat  was  in  no  tremor  of  emotion  when 
he  turned  to  address  Shofi.  It  was  a  matter 
of  course  that  he  should  be  leaving.  He 
filled  and  lit  his  pipe,  and  got  it  going  well, 
before  he  spoke. 

"You  have  shown  your  servant  many  kind- 
nesses in  these  years,  O  Shofi,"  he  said. 
"They  shall  be  remembered  for  ever.  It  is  a 
regret  to  me  that  I  cannot  serve  the  Sultan 
with  you.  You  have  been  very  good.  I  am 
not  worthy  of  such  consideration.  Some  day 
— when  I  have  found  another  place — I  shall 
return  for  my  books.  May  it  please  you, 
Salim,  to  leave  them  so.  They  are  not  in  the 
way;  and  my  successor  may  have  use 
for  them.  Let  him  use  them  as  he  will;  be- 
careful    of  the    worn    ones.    Health   be 


m 


with  you  by  favor  of  God,  Salim,  and  may 

prosperity  attend ! " 

Khayat  tucked  Elmoarri  under  his  arm  again, 

and  went  out,  stepping  firmly. 

Now  Shofi  had  been  thinking  of  profit  and 

loss.    It  appeared  to   him   that   a   steadfast 


(' 


Li 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 

policy  might,  after  all,  be  an  asset  worth 
more  than  the  Consul's  four  hundred  dollars. 
The  people's  suspicion  was  to  be  reckoned 
with.  And  Khayat  was  no  mean  asset.  Shofi 
was  frightened,  and  ran  to  the  door  to  call 
the  editor  back. 

"Khalil !  Khalil !  "  he  shouted.  "Come  back! 
I  must  think  it  over." 

Khayat  was  then  at  the  glue-agent's  door — 
within  hearing;  but  he  was  deep  in  the  hope- 
lessness of  his  case.  Though  the  words  of  re- 
call rattled  on  his  ear-drums,  they  were  not 
admitted,  not  interpreted. 
"Khalil!  Khalil!"  Shofi  screamed.  ''I  must 
think  it  over." 

Shofi  was  now  ready  to  permit  the  continua- 
tion of  the  little  story;  but  Khayat  was  out 
of  hearing  on  the  pavement,  looking  up  and 
down  the  street,  aimless  and  afraid  to  ven- 
ture forth.  Shofi  went  back  huffed,  and  sat 
down  to  brood. 

I  do  not  know  where  Khayat  went — he  has 
forgotten;  but  there  are  many  places  in  that 
neighborhood  which  are  comfortable  to  men 
who  shrink  from  militant  contact  with  the 
world.  Doubtless  he  wandered  here  and  there 
through  them  all:  now  sitting  down  to  read, 

i8 


THK  LAMP  OF   LIBI.RTY 

now  dozing  in  the  sunshine;  in  crowded  places 
alert, and  puffing  his  pipe  nervously.  A  man  can 
sit  on  the  docks  and  watch  the  ships  slip 
down  with  the  tide,  and  forget  necessity; 
there  is  a  soothing  niv^stery  in  the  creaking, 
battered,  disordered  vessels  and  their  smell 
of  sunny  climes — a  suggestive  whither — 
that  excludes  all  worry  and  regret;  a  bench 
in  Battery  Park  is  a  place  to  wonder  and 
wish,  when  the  harbor  is  busy  and  the  wind 
is  not  keen.  South  Street  and  Whitehall  and 
the  Battery  must  have  laughed  as  the  queer 
old  fellow  dodged  apologeticallv  along — the 
odd  figure,  in  old-fashioned,  old  clothes,  a 
big  black  book  tight  under  his  arm,  a  short 
black  pipe  in  his  mouth;  swarthy,  villainously 
unshaven,  dreaming.  Does  a  good  man  sell 
himself  without  a  fight?  Then  there  must 
have  been  a  fight.  Khayat  has  forgotten  what 
he  thouglit  about,  but  there  was  a  fight  at 
one  time  or  other  that  afternoon — a  hard- 
fought  fight.  1  think  the  thoughts  of  Abo 
Elola  Elmoarri  must  have  been  his  at  inter- 
vals; perhaps  he  turned  the  dingy  sails  and 
nervous  little  tugs  and  thin  haze  and  blue 
and  green  and  distant  cries  into  poetry  of  his 
own  in  the  Language    Beautiful.  But   I   am 

19 


I 


<    i 

'ii 


THE  SOUL  OF  THK   STKKET 


I*' I 


•i    I 


i: 


sure  that  he  had,  continuously,  an  oppressive 
consciousness  of  the  loss  of  an  influence  that 
made  for  a  great  good.  His  imagination 
played  pranks  with  him  in  crises  like  this; 
there  must  have  heen  a  call  to  martyrdom  in 
his  visions  of  oppression — of  blood  and  ravish- 
ment. Khayat  would  not  sell  himself  without 
a  fight.  There  was  a  period  of  agony — a 
series  of  emotions,  which  he  could  not  con- 
trol, culminating  in  a  resolution.  In  the  dusk, 
when  the  roar  of  the  elevated  trains,  as  they 
swept,  flashing,  round  the  curve  to  South 
Ferry,  gathered  up  the  street  clamor  and 
made  it  terrible,  he  was  frightened.  Then  he 
decided. 

Khayat  threaded  his  way  through  the  Quarter 
to  the  pastry  shop  of  Nageeb  Fiani,  and 
turned  in  to  speak  a  word  with  Salim  Shofi, 
whose  custom  it  was  to  drink  cofi^ee  over  a 
green  baize  table  in  the  little  back  room  at 
that  hour  of  the  evening.  He  was  clammy 
all  over,  and  pale;  bis  eyes  were  as  though 
hiding  in  the  depths  of  their  sockets,  and  his 
throat  was  dry. 

Shofi  was  there,  elegantly  lolling,  and  had  his 
narghile  bubbling,  and  his  coffee  steaming 
hot. 

20 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIBERTY 

"Salim,"  said  Khayat  abruptly,  "I  have 
thought  of  a  way  whereby  this  matter  may 
be  arranged." 

Now  Shofi  had  already  determined  to  yield. 
Patriotism,  he  had  concluded,  would  pay 
best  in  the  long  run.  He  was  even  ready  to 
soothe  Khayat  with  a  better  salary. 

"Peace  be  un "  he  began  affably. 

Khayat  raised  his  hand  to  stop  him;  and 
Shofi  saw  that  the  palm  was  bruised  and 
bloody,  as  though  the  finger  nails  had  sunk 
into  the  flesh. 

"The  Consul  ofl^ers  you  four  hundred  dol- 
lars," Khayat  continued,  speaking  earnestly, 
quickly,  as  though  he  would  not  brook  in- 
terruption. "Are  there  not  fifty-two  weeks 
in  every  year,  and,  therefore,  might  not 
fifty-two  dollars  be  saved  each  year  if  a  man 
put  away  one  dollar  every  week?  In  four 
hundred  weeks  a  man  might  save  four  hun- 
dred dollars.  Let  four  hundred  be  divided 
by  fifty-two,  and  the  result  is  seven  and 
seventv-one  hundredths,  more  or  less — 
seven  years  and  seventy-one  hundredth  parts 
of  a  year.  Now,  in  seventy-one  hundredth 
parts  of  a  year  there  are  thirty-six  weeks,  and 
in  thirty-six  weeks  nine  months.  Is  it  not  so? 

21 


li*' 


lli'. 


THK  SOUL  OF  THK  SIR  El  IT 

Salim,  in  your  generosity,  I  am  permitted 
to  have  seven  dollars  each  week  for  my  ser- 
vices. Six  are  enough  for  my  needs." 
Khayat  did  not  pause  before  the  prevarication, 
nor  was  he  shamefaced  as  he  went  on:  "It  is 
nothing  hut  a  Httle  coffee  and  a  little  tobacco 
less — perchance,  a  little  more  than  that.  Seven 
years  and  nine  months  will  1  serve  you, 
Salim  Shofi,  for  six  dollars  each  week,  if  so 
be  that  1  may  write  for  liberty.  What  is 
your  answer.''" 

Khayat  leaned  far  over  the  table  and  fixed 
his  eyes  on  Shofi's.  He  seemed  to  fear  a 
negative  answer. 

"Seven  yt-'ars?"  repeated  Shofi.  He  was 
staring  at  Khayat. 

"Seven  years,  nine  months  and  some  days, 
which,  at    another   time,  can  be  numbered. 
Salim,    your    answer — in  the  sight  of  God, 
our  (lod,  your  answer!" 
Shofi  wondered  what  the  fathomable  depth 
of  this  man's  simplicity  might  be. 
"I  am  content,"  he  said. 
"Then    may    God  bind  fast  the  agreement 
between  us."   Khayat  sighed  and  smiled,  and 
continued,  impulsively:  "1  must  now  go  to 
the  of^ce.  I  have  wasted  a  day,  Salim.  1  must 

22 


THE  LAMP  OK  LIBERTY 

catch  up  with  my  work.  I  must  hurry  to  it. 
You  will  excuse  me,  Salim,  if  you  please. 
The  paper  for  to-morrow  must  he  written.  I 
am  happy  again — ah,  quite  happy;  and  it  is 
to  your  generosity  I  owe  it.  May  you  be 
blessed  forever!  Salim,  may  happiness  be 
yours  through  life!" 

Khayat  rattled  on  in  a  nervous,  absent  way, 
as  he  backed  to  the  threshold,  as  though 
bent  on  shutting  off  an  invitation  to  drink 
coffee.  The  passion  for  the  little  story  was 
on  him  again.  He  had  no  time  to  spare. 
Shofi  let  him  escape,  and  then  burst  out 
laughing.  Khayat  tripped  his  way  to  the 
office,  radiantly  happy;  and  scattered  inco- 
herent good  wishes  right  and  left,  and  so 
earnestly  that  the  little  people  of  the  gut- 
ters wondered  to  see  their  friend  blither  than 
themselves.  The  little  story  was  forming 
again,  now  sure  of  life.  Khayat  stepped  with 
the  lightness  of  a  youth  in  rosy  love.  The 
trees  of  Battery  Park  heard  cracked,  quav- 
ering snatches  of  a  strange  Eastern  song,  as 
he  went  lilting  by.  And  the  desk  was  never 
cuddled  closer,  nor  the  pencil  more  fondly 
clutched,  than  when  he  sat  down  to  write. 


23 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 


u 


■h 


The  last  words  were  written  when  the  lamp 
and  the  sun  were  fighting  for  the  grimy  win- 
dow pane — the  one  trying  to  beat  the  other 
back;  and  these  were  the  words; 
"And  Civilization,  rising  before  the  princes 
of  the  earth  and  all  the  eminent  men  thereof, 
said:  *I  am  not  a  man  to  give  the  judgment 
of  men.  Therefore,  shall  the  sentence  not  be 
death.*  Now  as  soon  as  he  had  said  this 
two  angels,  the  one  on  the  right  hand  of  the 
Sultan  and  the  other  on  his  left,  lifted  up  a 
white  banner  over  his  head;  and  upon  the 
banner  was  written  the  sentence  in  letters  of 
black,  that  all  might  read.  And  Civilization, 
reading,  said.  *Abdul  Hamid,  Sultan  of  Tur- 
key, this  is  the  sentence:  In  the  fear  of  the 
dagger  and  the  poisoned  cup  shall  you  live  a 
long  life;  in  unrest,  by  day  and  by  night, 
shall  you  spend  it;  and  there  shall  be  no 
love  for  you,  nor  any  other  happiness.  And 
the  Sultan  prayed  rather  for  death." 
Khayat  laid  down  his  pencil,  and  lifted  the 
window,  that  the  dawn  might  rest  him;  and 
he  looked  out  over  the  quiet  city  to  the 
night's  furthest  limit,  and  was  rested. 
Long,  long  before,  Salim  Shofi  had  fallen 
asleep  as  he  smiled. 

24 


\ 


'  t 


iv 


ABSENCE  OF  MRS.  HALLORAN 


i 


1^ 


'I' 


li 


in 


k  li' 


1 1 


yt  , 


I 


r 


I « 


:  I 
I 


IN    THE    ABSKNCF    OF    MRS. 
HxALLORAN 

HE  screaming  of  the 
child  in  the  next  room 
suddenly  subsided  into 
wailing;  and  Khalil 
Khayat,  the  old  editor 
of  Kawkab  Elhorriah, — 
knew  that  the  day's 
causeless  beating  was 
over.  Mrs.  Halloran  had  quit  through  very 
exhaustion;  and,  intent  on  reviving  draughts, 
she  shuffled  along  the  hallway  and  clattered 
down  the  stair,  blowing  nd  railing  blatantly 
between  breaths.  She  groped  her  way  in 
reckless  wrath;  but  the  hall's  darkness  was 
safely  familiar — for  she  was  drunk — and  her 
left  hand  knew  the  shattered  stair  post,  and 
her  feet  the  sunken  floor  strip  and  broken 
step;  so  the  tenants  soon  heard  the  last  of 
her. 

Khayat  sustained  his  interest  in  the  sad  phi- 
losophy of  Abo  Elola  Elmoarrl,  that  lay 
open  in  his  lap,  until  the  sobbing  on  the 
other  side  of  the  partition  appealed  to  him 
out  of  the  near  silence  that  the  going  of 
Mrs.  Halloran   gave.   He     closed     the   big 

27 


y\ 


I 

I      I 


il 


'::)' 


11 

I*' 


I 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

black  book,  and  laid  it,  with  fleeting  regret, 
in  its  place,  and  stood  musing  in  the  thin 
sunshine  that  the  shadow  of  the  opposite 
building  had  chased  to  his  window  sill.  He 
listened  to  the  shouts  of  the  children  in  the 
street  far  below,  where,  in  the  first  freedom 
of  spring,  they  sported,  swarming,  making 
the  most  of  the  day's  end;  and  fine  sim- 
plicity made  music  of  shrill  cries  for  him, 
so  that  he  smiled,  and  blessed  his  God,  in 
his  own  way,  that  the  little  children  of  other 
men  should  so  shed  light  into  his  dark 
dwelling-place.  Then  he  bethought  him- 
self of  the  present  distress  of  the  boy,  his 
friend — who,  of  all  in  the  great  tenement, 
called  him  Mister  Khayat  and  never  Khayat 
the  Dago  nor  (ah,  the  bitterness  of  the  name, 
for  he  was  a  Christian  and  a  Syrian)  Khayat 
the  Turk — and  sighed,  and  tiptoed  in  to  tell 
him  a  story,  as  he  had  often  done. 
Mrs.  Halloran's  scrawny  last-born  was 
stretched  out  prone  on  the  floor  in  the 
deeper  dusk  near  the  table's  sound  leg. 
Khayat  gathered  him  in  his  arms,  hearing 
never  a  whimper  of  protest,  and  lifted  him 
out  of  the  window  to  the  fire-escape.  Billy 
Halloran  had  to  be  lifted  over  high   places; 

28 


e    i' 


I   I  ' 


ABSENCE  OF   MRS.   HALLORAN 

for  he  was  a  cripple  from  birth,  and  had 
pains  in  his  back  and  his  leg  half  the  days. 
He  bestowed  his  body  comfortably  against  a 
tub;  and  Khayat,  with  imperturbable  delib- 
eration, climbed  out  after  him,  and  squatted 
with  his  back  against  the  railing.  Sitting  so 
in  the  sunshine,  he  lit  the  precious  short 
pipe  the  Oxford  professor  had  given  him  in 
the  days  of  foolishness,  when  he  longed  to 
touch  the  liberty  that  men  from  the  West 
boasted,  and  told  Billy  Halloran  the  story 
he  had  liked  to  hear  best,  long,  long  ago  and 
far  away,  when  he  was  a  child  on  his  mother's 
knee: — 

"Long  ago — ver-ee  long  ago — there  leeve  a 
Keen'  een  Beirout,  my  home,  een  Syria;  an' 
he  was  a  Jew.  An'  een  those  days  a  grea-at 
dragon   he   come    up   from  the   sea, — come 

crawlin',  roarin' — roarin' " 

"Wat's  a  dragon?  I  do'  know,"  Billy 
plainted. 

"Ho!  Wat  ees?  A  fear-rful  creature. 
Thees  dragon's  head  eet  was  the  head  of  a 
serpent;  an'  hees  eyes  they  were  eyes  for 
the  night  an'  for  the  day,  an'  green  an' — an' 
— ho,  yes — an'  green-hot;  an'  hees  tongue 
eet  was   a  sharp,  twistin'   flame;    an'    black 

29 


\  \ 


<  J 


'  '1 

1      I        'K 


*     / 


I     I   , 


Ii: 


V  I 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 

smoke  an'  fires  come  from  hees  red  iiose. 
Hees  bod-ee  eet  was  like  a  mountain  for 
greatness,  an'  covered  with  glees-ten-in'  green 
scales — to  hees  head,  to  hees  tail  an'  to  the 
end  of  eet,  which  was  a  spear;  an'  hees 
ween's  were  like  the  wecn's  of  ten  thousan' 
black  bats  Lo,  he  come  roarin'  out  of  the 
sea,  cryin':  *Geeve  me  somethin'  to  eat ! 
Geeve  me  somethin'  to  eat,  for  I  am  hungry!' 
An'  he  go  to  a  dark  cave  een  the  mountain 
near  the  city  to  leeve  there;  an'  the  people 
fly  een  great  hurry  to  the  city  to  escape, 
cryin':  'O  Keen',  O  mighty  Keen',  our 
Keen',  save  us  from  the  jaws  of  the  dragon!'  " 
"Wat  kin  a  King  do?" 
"Ver-ee  powerful    man,  a   Keen'.  Ho,  yes! 

He 

"Like  a  cop?" 

"Much more — very,  ver-ee  powerful.  He " 

"Like  de  roun'sman,  Hogan?" 

"Yes,  yes;  as " 

"Like  MacNamarra?  Naw,  'e  ain't!" 
"MacNamarra?  Wat  ees  he,  MacNamarra?" 
"De  block  does  w'at   'e  says,  you   bet.    'E's 
a  alderman." 

"As    twelve     hun'red    MacNamarras!"    ex- 
claimed Khayat. 

30 


r  '4 


ABSENCE  OF  MRS.  HALLORAN 

"Gee!"  said  Billy,  and  dismissed  the  mat- 
ter as  beyond  comprehension. 
"  Now,  I  know  that  thees  the  story  my 
mother  have  told  me  as  a  leetle  chil'  eet  ees 
true,"  Khayat  went  on;  "for  I  have  seen  the 
cave,  an'  the  print  of  the  dragon's  claws  een 
the  very  rock.  Ah  !  my  eyes  shall  see  the 
mountain  side  nevermore.  Oh,  oh,  I  am  sad 
—so  ver-ee  sad!  No  more  shall  I  go  back. 
Oh,  oh!    For  do  they  not  look  for  me  to 

keel  me.?  Oh,  cruel!  Wat " 

"Eh.?  Wat    'dy'udo?"  asked   Billy,  with 
an  extraordinary  access  of  interest. 
"I  have  so  much  write  against  the  Sultan  of 
Turkey,"   Khayat    answered   gravely.  "An' 
een    Aleppo— sh-h-hh  !--I   keel  three   Mo- 
hammaden — I,     myself      My   seester— you 
would  not  understan' — eet  was  for  my  seester 
I  shed  blood.   God  he  strength  my  arm  an' 
sharp  my  knife." 
"Was  y'u  pinched.?" 
I  escape,"  said  Khayat  quietly. 
Did  y'ugit  it  off.?" 
"Off?" 

"De  blood.  One-lip  Bill  says  it  won't  come 
oft  'is 'and.  'E'sleft-'anded,an' w'en  'e  stabbed 
Yellow  Mag  de  knife " 

31 


a 


(( 


C( 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 

"Sh-h-hh!  I  talk  no  more  of  eet.  Well, 
I  can  go  back — no.  Eet  ees  God's  weel. 
E,et  matters  not  for  you.  Enough!  Yes,  I 
have  seen  the  cave  an'  know  eets  darkness; 
an*  the  print  of  the  dragon's  feet  I  have 
touch  with  my  fingers.  So  I  know  the  story 
my  mother  have  told  me  ees  true,  every 
word.  I  now  tell  eet  to  you." 
Khayat  lit  his  pipe  again,  and  Billy  got  his 
bad  leg  in  a  more  comfortable  position. 
"Now,  the  dragon  begeen  to  devour  the 
people,"  Khayat  resumed,  "seekin'  out  the 
children  first;  an'  day  an'  night  the  people 
gather  before  the  palace  gates,  cryin':  *0 
Keen*,  O  mighty  Keen',  save  our  lives,  an* 
the  lives  of  our  leetle  ones !'  After  many 
days  the  Keen*  hearken  to  the  voices  of  hees 
people,  an*,  standin*  before  all,  said:  *0  my 
people,  my  beloved  ones,  who  weel  keel  the 
dragon  for  me,  hees  Keen'?*  An'  no  man 
speak;  for  they  have  all  great  fear.  Then 
deed  the  Keen'  cry  once  more:  'O  my  peo- 
ple, my  beloved  ones,  who  are  like  to  my 
eyes  so  dear,  heem  who  breen'  to  me  the 
head  of  thees  dragon  weel  I  make  a  preence 
een  my  house.*  Yet  deed  no  man  say  one 
word.    Then  the  Keen*  call  the  wise  men  to 

32 


ABSENCE  OF  MRS.  HALLORAN 


heem,  an'  consider  what  could  he  do;  an', 
after,  one  go  to  the  dragon  een  hees  cave 
an'  make  a  bargain  with  heem  for  the  Keen', 
agreein'  to  geeve  each  day  one  chil'  an'  one 
sheep,  eef  only  the  dragon  be  good;  an'  the 
dragon  he  was  content.  So  the  people  return 
to  their  homes  an'  have  peace;  an'  every  day 
the  lot  eet  was  cast  by  the  wise  men,  an*  out 
of  many  families  was  geeve  a  dear  son,  an' 
out  of  many  folds  a  sheep.  The  dragon  he 
grow  fat  an'  merry. 

"By  an'  by,  eet  come  the  turn  of  the  Keen', 
who  have  no  son,  but  only  one  beautiful 
daughter.  Now  the  Keen'  did  weep;  for 
he  love  hees  daughter  as  he  love  nothin' 
else,  an'  he  would  not  give  her  to  the 
dragon.  But  the  wise  men  say  to  heem:  *0 
Keen',  O  Keen',  O  Keen',  our  sons  have  we 
geeve  without  weepin'  before  all  men.  Who 
among  us  ees  faithless,  O  our  Keen'?  Geeve, 
we  pray,  your  daughter  with  a  sheep  to  the 
dragon.'  The  Keen'  he  answer  an*  say:  *0 
the  people  of  Beirout,  the  chief  city  of  my 
keen'dom,  who  will  take  my  keen'dom,  an' 
save  to  me  my  daughter?'  An'  the  people 
cry:  *0  Keen',  our  Keen',  deed  your  servants 
not  keep  their  word?  May  eet  please  you, 

33 


m 


\U 


THE  SOUL  OF  THK   SIR!  I.T 

master,  to  give  your  daughter  with  a  sheep 
to  the  dragon — oh,  please!'  An'  again 
deed  the  Keen'  beseech  a  man  to  take  hees 
keen'dom,  an'  save  hees  daughter.  The  peo- 
ple cry:  'Keen',  your  daughter  to  the  dra- 
gon!' Three  times  the  Keen'  he  call  to  the 
people,  an'  the  people  answer  as  they  have 
done. 

"At  last  the  Keen'  turn  to  hees  servants  an' 
order  them  to  take  a  white  sheep  an'  wash 
heem  ver-ee  clean;  an'  to  hees  woman  ser- 
vants he  say,  'Dress  my  daughter,  your 
meestress,  een  her  finest  raiment,  an'  put  a 
white  veil  over  her  face,  for  she  ees  to  die.' 
Then  he  go  eento  an  eener  room  of  hees 
palace,  an'  mourn  een  a  loud  voice,  so  the 
people  they  deed  hear  heem.  The  servants 
deed  as  they  were  told;  an*  when  the  sun 
was  low  on  that  day,  the  Keen',  with  tears 
een  hees  eyes,  besought  hees  daughter  to 
lead  the  sheep  to  the  place  where  the  dragon 
was.  Hees  daughter  bow  before  him  an'  say: 
'O  my  dear  father,  as  your  people  weel,  so  I 
do;  an'  een  doin'  so  I  grieve  because  I  do 
not  as  you  weel.'  At  thees  speech  the  Keen' 
cry  aloud,  so  ver-ee  sad  was  he;  but  hees 
daughter,    with    greater   courage    than    any 

34 


I 


I,  . 


ABSKNCK  OF  MRS.  HALLORAN 

woman,  go  out  alone,  leadin*  the  sheep.  Now 
the  people  follow  afar  off;  and  the  Keen'  was 
with  them.  So  deed  they  all  go  out  of  the 
city's  gates;  an'  the  Keen'  he  weep  an'  cry 
out  all  the  time:  'Who  weel  take  my  keen'- 
dom,  an'  save  my  daughter?' — for  there  was 
yet  time.  But  the  people  loved  not  the  Keen' 
for  that  he  deed  not  save  hees  own  daughter; 
an'  they  were  silent,  all  men  of  them. 
"Now,  when  the  dear  lady,  leadin'  the  white 
sheep,  come  to  the  place  where  the  dragon  was, 
she  cry:  *0  Monster  come  forth!  Here  ees 
blood  an'  flesh — flesh  an'  blood  of  chil'  an' 
beast  as  the  Keen',  my  father,  agree.'  An'  there 
come  from  the  mouth  of  the  cave  black 
smoke,  grea-at  clouds,  an'  a  roarin'  from  the 
bowels  of  the  earth.  Then  the  people  look 
up  from  the  plain,  where  they  stan'  een  one 
great  throng,  an'  observe  with  their  two  eyes, 
shadin'  them  from  the  sun,  for  eet  was  even- 
in';  an'  again  the  Keen'  he  cry  een  a  voice 
terrible  with  grief:  *Oh,  oh,  who  weel  take 
my  keen'dom,  an'  breen'  me  back  my  leetle 
daughter?'  Steel  were  the  people  silent;  but 
some  call  upon  their  God  to  send  an  angel 
from  heaven  to  slay  the  dragon. 
"Then  a  wonderful   theen'   eet   happen;   for 

3S 


M 


!    I 


.  ( }  'j 


I 


T 


1) 

f 


V  I 


THK  SOUL  OF  THK  STREET 

afar  off  on  the  road  was  a  cloud  of  dust  ob- 
served, an*  out  of  the  dust  come  a  horseman, 
ridin*  very  mad;  an'  anon  there  stan'  at  the 
side  of  the  Keen's  daughter  a  great  knight, 
with  armor  of  silver  an'  a  helmet  of  shinin' 
gold;  an'  tall  feathers  wave  en  the  leetle 
weend  above  hees  helmet,  an'  a  spear  he  carry 
een  hees  han*. 

"  *0  beauteous  lady,'  deed  the  horseman 
say  to  the  daughter  of  the  Keen*,  'how 
beautiful  are  you !  But  why  stan'  you  here 
alone  with  a  white  sheep,  near  where  the 
smoke  of  a  fearful  dragon  come  from  the 
mouth  of  a  cave?  O,  fear  not,  beauteous 
one,  for  I  weel  slay  the  dragon.' 
"An'  the  lady  tremble,  but  not  of  fear,  for 
the  voice  of  the  knight  eet  was  gentle;  an' 
she  answer  to  him:  *0  young  man,  O  young 
man,  fly  from  thees  dreadful  place,  for  the 
dragon  ees  a  great  dragon  as  ever  was,  an' 
very  hungry,  for  they  have  not  fed  heem  for 
four  days.  Seek  not  to  die  for  me,  but  fly 
quickly.' 

"*Ho,  ho!'  said  the  knight.  *Ees  eet  so? 
A  great  dragon,  an'  not  fed  for  four  days ! 
What  a  joy  an'  dignity  for  me  to  slay  heem!' 
"'Oh,  try  not,'  said  the  lady,  'but  fly,  fly!' 

36 


n 


■p 


♦    i 


ABSKNCK  OF  MRS.  HALLORAN 

'"Beauteous  lady,'  deed  the  knight  say 
then,  *I  may  not  fly  from  dragons,  for  I  am 
the  Christian  George;  an'  eef  1  might,  I 
would  not.' 

"An'  three  times  deed  the  lady  beseech 
heem  to  go;  an'  thrice  deed  he  answer  her: 
*Oh,    fear    not;    eet    ees    my    task    to    slay 

dragons,  an' '" 

"'Is  work?"   Billy  Halloran  demanded. 
"Yes,"    answered    Khayat,    and    continued: 

"  'Ket  ees  my  work  to  slay  dragons,  an' '  " 

"'Is  business, — 'is  reg'lar  trade?"  Billy 
asked  in  wonderment. 

"Ay,"  said  Khayat  impatiently,  "  hees 
trade — say    eet  so.  An'  the  knight  he  say, 

*An'  slay  thees '" 

"Say,"  said  Billy  eagerly,  "any  chanst  fer 
a  willin'  boy  over  there  now — a  boy  wit'  a 

bad  leg,  but  willin' — willin " 

"Boy  ?  For  what,  a  boy  ?  " 

'•Fer   dis    dragon-slayin'    business.     George 

was  on  horseback,  an' " 

"Sh-h-hh!"     said     Khayat.     "Eet    ees    all 
dead  now.  There  ees  no  more  of  eet." 
Billy   Halloran  sighed.  "  Bloody  good  bus- 
iness,"   he   said   regretfully,  and  was  silent. 
"Well,"    Khayat    pursued,    "the  knight   he 

37 


(  I 


I 


WP 


T 


1.1 


Ui  ■> 


THE  SOUL  OK  THK   STRKKT 

say  to  the  lady:  4  would  not  fly  if  I  might, 
while  you  stan'  here  all,  all  alone.  Ket  will  be 

to  me  a  greater  joy,  so,  to  keel  the  drag '" 

"W'ere's  de  dragon  all  dis  time?"  Billy 
interrupted.  "Ain't  'e  doin'  any  stunts?" 
"Well,  the  dragon  he  come  roarin'  from 
the  cave  in  terrible  wrath;  an'  smoke  an'  fire 
come  from  hees  mouth  an'  blood  sweat  from 
hees  belly,  so  fearful  was  hees  madness.  Hees 
ween's  he  flap  with  the  noise  of  a  great  weend, 
an'  hees  claws  he  stretch  as  an  angry  cat;  an' 
the  sun  fall  on  the  green  scales  of  hees  bod-ee 
an'  on  the  purple  scales  of  hees  head,  so  that 
they  shine  brighter  than  the  armor  of  the 
knight — ay,  with  a  magic  lustre  that  ob- 
scured the  sun  an'  blind  the  eyes  of  the  people 
on  the  plain.  Eet  ees  truth;  so  deed  the 
scales  of  the  dragon  shine  unteel  God  he  touch 
the  armor  of  the  Christian  George  with  cool 
flame;  then  deed  the  light  een  them  fade  to 
very  blackness  een  the  people's,  eyes.  Then 
the  knight  he  speak  comfort  to  the  lady,  an' 
ride  up  against  the  dragon,  cryin':  'The  Lord 
for  George  an'  the  lady!  The  Lord  geeve 
help  to  George  ! '  " 

"De  Lord,  w'at's  'e?  I  do'  know,"  said 
Billy. 

38 


» . 


•n\ 


ABSKNCK  Ov    MRS.   HALLORAN 

Khayat,    silent,  motionless,    stared    at  Billy 
Halloran. 

"Oh,    do  you  not  know,    boy?"    he    whis- 
pered distressfully  at  last.  "He  ees  our  Father 

— the  Lord  Almighty,  who " 

"Aw,  y'u  mean  Gawd.    W'y  don't  v'u  talk 

'Nited  States?  'K " 

"Sh-h-hh  !  "  with  a  gesture  of  deprecation. 
"Well,  'e  ain't  no  business  mixin'  in  de 
scrap,"  Billy  persisted  sullenly,  and  continued 
argumentatively:  "It  ain't  no  square  t'ing  fer 
de  dragon.  Gawd  'e  jumped  up  an'  t'rew 
sand  in  de  dragon's  eyes,  didn't  'e,  eh? 
Aw " 

"Stop,  boy!"  Khayat  exclaimed.  "Say  not 
so.  Oh,  do  not!  Eet  ees  not  so.  Oh,  no — 
the  story " 

"Well,    was     Gawd    anyw'ere    roun'    w'en 

George  give  de  signal  ?  " 

"Ken    heaven    he    was,    O    boy!    You     not 

know " 

"I  know  more'n  y'u  t'ink,"  said  Billy, 
with  a  knowing  side  glance.  "A  Salvationer 
tol'  me  a  t'ing  or  two  w'en  she  fix  me  leg. 
Say,  y'u  can't  tell  w'ere  t'  look  fer  Gawd  in 
them  days.  'E  might  'a'  bin  in  a  tree,  an'  'e 
might  'a'  bin  in    a    fire,    an'     'e    might    'a' 

39 


A 


i  '1 

Ml 


I 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 


II 


bin  a  stone  on  de  groun  an'  y'u  wouldn't 
know  it,  an'  'e  might  'a'  bin  in  de  win' 
an'  y'u  couldn't  see  'im."  Billy's  voice  had 
taken  on  a  tone  of  mystery,  and  his  eyes 
were  round;  and  now  he  continued  plain- 
tively: "I  t'ink  an'  I  t'ink,  an'  I  do'  know 
w'at  *e  is  er — er — I  do'  know." 
"Well,  he  was  een  heaven,"  said  Khayat. 
Billy  sighed — for  nothing  immediate. 
"George  must  'a'  had  'is  ally  wit'  *im,  if 
Gawd  was  dere,"  he  said.  "G'wan." 
It  was  Khayat's  turn  to  sigh.  "The  dragon," 
he  said,  taking  up  the  thread  of  his  story, 
"he  turn  an'  go  eento  hees  cave,  where  no 
eye  could  see  heem;  an'  the  knight  ride  up 
an'  shake  his  spear  at  the  darkness  of  the 
cave  an'  mock  the  dragon.  Then  deed  the 
people  laugh  loud  at  the  dragon;  an'  the 
knight  cry:  *So  cowardly  a  dragon  deed  I 
never  see  een  my  life!  Come  forth  an'  fight, 
that  I  may  keel  you.  See,  I  throw  away  my 
sword,  an'  my  helmet  1  cast  aside.  Now  have 
I  only  my  spear;  an'  my  face  eet  ees  bare  to 
your  tongue  of  flame.  Come  to  the  sunlight. 
Geeve  me  fight  for  the  lady.' 
"Now  the  dragon  was  a  cunnin'  fellow,  mean- 
in'  all  the  time  to  come  forth  an'  keel  the 

40 


'I,  t. 


■  't 


ABSENCE  OF  MRS.  HALLORAN 

Christian  George  by  a  treek.  Lo,  as  the 
people  look,  even  as  they  laugh  most  loud, 
a  smoke  cloud,  black  an'  theek  like  a  night 
tempest,  eet  creep,  creep  from  the  mouth  of 
the  cave,  bein'  carried  on  the  breath  of  the 
dragon,  an*  gather  round  about  the  knight, 
an'  envelop  heem  from  the  people's  sight. 
Then  was  there  terrible  fear  een  the  people's 
hearts,  who  know  much  of  the  treeks  of  dra- 
gons; an'  they  say,  each,  man  to  hees  own 
heart:  *Lo,  the  black  cloud  ees  the  poison 
breath  of  the  dragon,  an'  the  brave  knight 
weel  surely  perish.'  Thrice  deed  George  call 
upon  hees  God,  an'  hees  voice  was  the  even- 
in'  prayer  bell  for  sweetness;  an*  thrice  deed 
he  shout  hees  battle-cry,  an'  hees  voice  was 
as  the  roarin'  of  a  crouch-ed  lion  for — for — 
fear-rfulness.  The  darkness  on  the  mountain 
side  eet  was  terrible  as  night  at  noonday,  an' 
the  people  tremble  an*  cover  their  faces  to 
conceal  the  sight  of  the  dragon's  magic. 
"Lo,  the  dragon  leap  forth  with  smoke  an' 
fire  an'  great  noise,  as  a  shot  of  iron  from  a 
cannon's  mouth.  Hees  tongue  eet  was  as 
lightnin'  een  a  black  storm.  Lo,  a  great  roar- 
in'  come  from  the  cloud,  an'  again  a  roarin*, 
an'  for  the  third  time  a  grea-ater  ro-oarin* 

41 


1 


\ 


i  A 


I 


II 


mm 


m 


rt 


if ' 


111 


THE  SOUL  OV  THE   STREET 

than  ever  before.  With  suddeness  deed  God 
gather  the  smoke  een  hees  han',  an'  geeve 
eet  to  the  four  weends.  Then  was  there  si- 
lence as  of  rest-time,  as  of  a  tomb  of  ten 
thousan'  years,  as  of  hot  noon  on  a  desert  of 
no  endin'.  Lo,  the  great  victory  of  the  Chris- 
tian George  deed  affright  the  people.  The 
knight  he  stan*  by  the  mouth  of  the  dragon 
an'  hees  spear  was  thrust  through  the  throat 
of  the  beast,  an'  black  blood  flow  from  the 
woun', — ay,  a  river  of  black  blood.  Lo,  the 
dragon  was  dead;  an'  the  knight  was  not  hurt, 
even  een  one  sma-all  hair  of  hees  head." 
"Gee!"  the  boy  ejaculated. 
"Now,  the  Keen'  was  possessed  of  so  great 
joy  that  he  could  not  contain  eet  een  heem, 
an'  ran  before  the  bearers  of  hees  chair,  not 
waitin'  for  them,  to  the  place  where  hees 
daughter  stan'  with  the  white  sheep.  Then 
he  embrace  hees  daughter  three  times;  for  he 
was  so  please  to  see  her  alive  an'  the  dragon 
dead.  The  Christian  knight  he  come  to 
where  they  stan';  an'  the  Keen'  he  say  to 
heem:  *0  young  man  of  great  courage  an' 
skeel  with  the  spear,  favored  of  God  an' 
beautiful  een  the  eyes  of  all  men,  een  whose 
bosom   there  leeve  no  fear,  neither    of  the 

42 


>)" 


i'  n 


absi:nck  of  mrs.  halloran 

might  nor  the  magic  of  dragons,  come,  I  pray, 
you,  eat  with  me  of  the  best  een  my  house 
an'  rest  from  the  terrible  conflict.* 
"An'  the  Christian  George  sav:  'O  my  lord, 
when  1  have  bury  the  dragon,  then  weel  I 
come.' 

"I'hen  deed  George  call  for  twelve  oxen  to 
be  brought  an'  fasten  to  the  dragon's  bod-ee 
with  a  strong  rope,  to  draw  eet  to  a  deep 
hole;  an'  so  eet  was  done  as  he  have  order. 
Now  the  oxen  pull,  an'  again  pull  they  very 
hard;  but  they  could  not  move  the  dragon  so 
much  as  one  eench,  so  very  beeg  was  he. 
"  'Oh,  breen'  to  me  a  cotton  thread,'  the 
knight  sav. 

"An'  they  breen'  to  h?em  a  cotton  thread;  an* 
he  tie  the  thread  to  the  dragon's  tooth  an' 
pull  the  great  bod-ee,  as  a  miracle,  alone — 
heemself — with  one  arm;  an'  he  bury  eet  een 
a  deep  hole.  Then,  immediately,  he  go  to 
the  Keen's  palace;  an'  as  soon  as  he  have 
come  to  the  door,  the  Keen'  meet  heem  as 
equal  to  heemself,  an'  begeen  to  address  heem, 
sayin',  'My  son,  1  have  no  chil'  but  only  one 
daughter;  an'  I  would  that  you  marry  my 
daughter,  whose  life  eet  ees  yours,  an'  be  a 
son  to  me,  to  sit  on  my  throne  after  me.* 

43 


i't' 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 


f..* 


\i'i 


I.: 
t 


"Now  when  the  young  lady  she  have  heard 
thees,  she  have  great  fear;  for,  lo,  she  love 
the  knight  with  all  the  love  she  have.  So 
queek  she  run  to  her  women,  an'  cry  to  them: 
*Oh,  take  me  to  my  chamber!*  So  the  women 
look  on  the  Keen'  with  frowns,  an'  do  as  she 
have  said. 

"George  he  bow  very  low  to  the  Keen*  an' 
say,  *Graciou^  master,  to  whom  God,  my 
God,  grant  to  leeve  one  hun'red  years  an' 
more,  surely  never  was  there  kin'ness  like 
to  the  great  kin'ness  have  you  shown  to 
your  unworthy  servant.  How  beauteous  ees 
your  dear  daughter!  What  reward  more  great 


V     ! 


"Cheese  it!"  whispered  Billy  Halloran. 
"She's  a-comin*  back.  Can't  y'u  'ear'er?" 
A  creak — prolonged  peculiarly,  like  the  wail 
of  a  baby  in  pain — a  pause,  a  ponderous  foot- 
fall, warned  Billy  Halloran  that  his  mother 
had  reached  the  seventh  step  of  the  last  stair, 
and  that  there  was  now  no  time  for  the 
escape  of  the  editor.  He  stretched  his  neck 
through  the  window,  and  peered  with  alert 
eyes  at  the  door.  Khayat  got  to  his  knees, 
and  pressed  his  dark  face  against  the  pane 
above,  his  heart  quaking. 

44 


'I  i 
I   I 


(I 
il 


ABSENCE  OF  MRS.  HALLORAN 

"She  shall  not  beat  you  once  more  thees 
day,"  he  whispered,  his  voice  shrill  with  high 
resolve.  "I,  Khalil  Khayat,  say  eet.  My 
arm  shall  defend  you.  The  Lord  God  Al- 
mighty, the  poor  servant  of  heem  I  am,  geeve 
me  strength  an*  courage  to  prevail  against 
the  woman!  Hees  enemies,  though  they 
be  as  one  thousan'  against  one,  are  as  one 
against  ten  thousan'  before  hees  might.  Hees 
ees  the  power,  and  hees  shall  be  the   glory 

for  these  good  deed.     Eet  ees  to  heem " 

Billy's  chuckling  shattered  Khayat's  rapture. 
"Know  w'at  she  done  t'  de  ol'  man?"  Billy 
asked,  mischief  in  his  eye;  and  he  added  in 
warning:  "'E's  in  de  'ospital." 
"Her  strength  I  care  not  for,"  Khayat  an- 
swered doggedly.  "  The  strength  of  God  ees 
mine." 

Billy  was  tempted  to  prove  his  mother's  sin- 
gle superiority;  but  just  then  Mrs.  Halloran 
lurched  in,  and  stood  to  rest,  blinking* 
stupidly  at  the  window.  She  was  drunk  near 
to  the  point  of  collapse;  and  her  corpulent 
body  swayed  this  way  and  that,  its  besting  of 
her  exhausted  legs  imminent.  Her  face  was 
loose:  it  was  as  though  intelligence  had  left 
her  in  disgust.  Matted  strands  of  hair  hung* 

45 


11 


tl 


'I 

J' 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

in  the  way  of  her  eyes,  and  she  swept  her 
great  grimy  hand  across  her  brow  at  sudden 
intervals,  but  vainly.  Her  dress  was  undone 
at  the  throat,  revealing  the  degradation  of 
uncleanliness  and  the  depth  of  her  poverty. 
It  was  now  a  step — then  a  step — a  fearful 
fight  to  keep  upright — always  a  groping  after 
handholds,  as  she  made  her  way  towards  the 
mattress  in  the  corner. 

Billy  instinctively  pushed  Khayat  back  from 
the  sight,  and,  of  a  sudden  overcome  by  the 
humiliation  of  his  presence,  began  to  cry. 
He  sobbed  and  sobbed,  turning  himself  away 
from  comfort,  and  at  last  asked  sharply, 
returning  to  the  story,  "  Did  'e  marry 
err 

"The  people  een  Beirout  say  to  thees  very 
day,"  Khayat  answered,  "that  the  Keen's 
daughter  wept  many  days  an'  at  last  she 
died  of  the  strange  seekness  of  heart — eet  ees 
call  love." 
"Huh!"  said  Billy. 

There  was  a  heavy  fall  in  the  room  that 
seemed  to  shake  the  house.  Mrs.  Halloran 
had  lain  down. 

"Lobster  if  *e'd  'adone  it,"  Billy  said, 
drying  his  eyes. 

46 


rl 
V 


ABSKNCK  OF  MRS.  HALLORAN 

"To   take    her  for  hees  wife — ah,  no,  no," 

Khayat  said  in  protest. 

Billy  puzzled. 

"A  beauteous  lady!"   Khayat  pursued.  "Ah, 

no!"  and  he  looked  away. 

Billy  gave   him    a    knowing    leer.    "One-lip 

Bill,  rne  frien',"  he  said,  "says  it  ain't  neces- 
»      »» 
s  ry. 

Now  Khayat  did  not  understand;  so  his 
gentle  old  face  did  not  sadden  this  time.  He 
clambered  through  the  window  and  crept 
like  a  cat  to  his  own  room,  to  resume  the 
reading  of  Abo  Elola  Elmoarri's  sad  phi- 
losophy in  the  big  black  book;  and,  later, 
into  the  night,  to  write  wisdom  concerning 
the  oppression  of  his  own  people,  for  the 
men  of  his  race  to  read  in  their  own  tongue, 
in  the  little  restaurant  of  lower  Washington 
Street,  where  his  thoughts  are  to  be  found  in 
a  new  Kawkab  Elhorriah,  every  evening — 
that  they  might  ponder,  perchance  to  their 
awakening,  some  day.  And  Billy  Halloran 
was  left  alone  on  the  fire-escape,  in  the  dusk 
and  chill  of  evenirc  between  the  things  of 
home,  that  repelled  nim,  and  the  romp  and 
laughter  of  the  street,  far  below,  that  were 
greatly  to   be  desired,  but  were  out  of  the 

47 


fj' 


.i.'i 


n  • ' 


ri 


it  '.  V 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

reach  of  a  little  boy  who  chanced  to    be  a 
cripple  from  birth. 


48 


4    :l. 


THE  GREATEST  PLAYER  IN  ALL 
THE  WORLD 


M 


I 


rw" 


'4' 


i\: 


gri:ati;st  pi.aykr  in  all  thl 

WORLD 

HK  doctor  wore  the 
only  silk  hat  in  the 
Ouarter — an  alien,  su- 
percilious high  hat  that 
coolly  asserted  the  su- 
periority of  the  head 
under  it  as  it  bobbed 
along.  It  was  rusty 
and  rufHed,  antiquated 
as  a  stove-pipe;  but  it  was  no  less  impor- 
tant to  the  influence  of  his  words  than  his 
degree  from  the  Faculte  de  Medicine  de 
Constantinople  and  the  fame  of  his  skill. 
It  was  a  silent,  sly  declaration-intent  of  dis- 
tinguished position — an  inexhaustible  inspi- 
ration to  dignity  in  a  squalid  environment, 
and,  always,  it  brought  salaams  from  right 
and  left,  and  a  clear  way.  For  the  pristine 
gloss  of  it,  and  for  the  militant  manner  of 
superiority  that  accompanied  its  wearing,  the 
simple  tenement-dwellers  of  lower  Washing- 
ton Street — which  is  the  neighborhood  of 
the  great  soap  factory,  and  the  hive  of  expa- 
triated Syrians — accounted  the  doctor  equal 
with  MacNamarra  of  the  corner  saloon,  who 
wore  his  only  on  Tuesdays,  when  the  Board 


:-  4'! 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

of  Aldermen  met,  and  on  certain  mysterious 
occasions — such  as  when  the  Irish  have 
sprigs  of  green  on  their  coat  lapels.  This 
was  important  to  Nageeb  Fiani,  the  dreamer, 
who  had  a  pastry-cook  for  a  partner,  and 
kept  a  little  shop  just  where  the  long  shadow 
of  the  soap-factory  chimney  reaches  at  two 
o'clock  of  a  midsummer  afternoon.  The  peo- 
ple knew  for  themselves  that  there  was  no 
greater  musician  than  he  from  Rector  Street 
to  the  Battery  and  in  all  the  colonies  of  the 
Quarter;  but  the  Doctor  EfFendi  said  that 
there  was  none  greater  in  all  Syria! 
There  came  a  time  when  the  doctor — that 
important  one! — said  even  more.  When 
Salim,  the  little  son  of  his  sister,  coughed  his 
last,  and  sighed  most  plaintively — and  sighed 
— and  gasped — and  surrendered  to  the  lung 
trouble,  Fiani  denied  himself  speech  and 
sleep  for  three  days  and  three  nights,  and 
caught  a  tearful  strain  from  the  music  that 
sounded  always  in  his  soul's  ears — enravish- 
ing — elusive;  even  as  he  himself  has  said. 
On  the  second  of  the  lonely  nights,  Khalil 
Khayat,  the  editor,  made  his  accustomed  way 
to  the  little  back  room  of  the  pastry-cook's 
shop  for  coffee  and  congenial  company;  and 

52 


THE   GREATEST    PLAYER 

he  was  early.  Immediately  Cillal  Tahan,  the 
thrifty  partner — he  who  was  the  cook — went 
to  him,  wailing:  "Oh,  Khalil,  Khalil,  mis- 
fortune has  fallen  upon  me!  I  am  crushed 
flat  like  a  cake  !  O-o-o-o-o!  Agh!  Now  for 
two  days  has  Nageeb,  the  idle,  had  the  key 
turned  upon  himself.  Would  that  I  were 
two  men  in  one!  Can  a  man  be  in  the  kitchen 
and  at  the  counter  at  the  same  time?  If  I 
cook,  I  cannot  sell,  and  if  I  sell,  I  cannot 
cook.  And  how  can  a  man  sell  that  which 
he  has  not  cooked?  Must  a  cook  sell?  Is 
the  dog  to  be  harnessed  to  the  plow?  Am  I 
to  sell  or  cook — or  cook  what  I  sell — or  sell 
— o-o-o-o!"  Tahan  collapsed  utterly  under 
his  perplexities.  He  panted  his  indignation; 
every  vagrant  hair  of  his  great  mustache 
quivered,  and  his  red,  starting  eyes  over- 
flowed; he  flung  himself  into  a  chair,  threw 
his  apron  over  his  head  and  wailed  on  unin- 
telligibly. 

"BassT'  exclaimed  Khalil  Khayat,  severely. 
"It  is  a  saying:  *I  save  my  tears  for  times 
of  sorrow.'  It  may  be  that  Nageeb  Fiani 
plays  on  the  violin?" 

"Like  a  rusted  shutter  swinging  in  the 
tempest.    O-o-o!    There   is    no    end   to    it. 

S3 


a 


m"^ 


II' 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

Though  I  beat  on  the  door  with  a  rolling 
pin  he  will  not  stop." 

Khayat  smiled  in  his  kindly  way.  Then  he 
sniffed — abruptly.  "Had  the  watchman  not 
slept,"  he  said,  significantly,  stopping  to 
sniff  again,  "the  vineyard  would  have  yielded 

fruit  in  more  abundant " 

"Toshi,  Toshi ! "  screamed  Tahan.  "Thou 
idiot!  The  backlawa  is  burning."  He  was 
already  in  the  kitchen,  leaving  two  chairs, 
legs  uppermost,  and  the  half  of  his  apron  in 
his  track. 

Then  Khali!  Khayat,  with  the  light  of  pure, 
sanguine  curiosity  in  his  eyes,  tiptoed  up  to 
the  room  where  Nageeb  Fiani  sat  in  dark- 
ness with  his  violin,  and  he  put  his  ear  to 
:he  keyhole  and  listened — and  listened — and 
put  his  ear  closer,  and  held  it  so  until  his  old 
back  ached;  and  so  still  was  he  that  the  rats 
scampered  madly  over  the  dark  hall  floor,  in 
all  unconcern,  surely  taking  him  for  a  bit  of 
furniture  newly  moved  in.  He  listened  a 
long  time;  and  when  he  got  to  his  corner 
downstairs  his  coffee  was  cold,  and  the  coal 
on  his  narghile,  turned  from  red  to  gray,  had 
eaten  up  half  the  tobacco.  He  said  no  word 
that    night;   so    no    man    knew  what   great 

54 


THE    GREATEST    PLAYER 

thing  was  being  done.  But  there  was  that  in 
his  solemn,  wondering  siience  that  led  men 
to  say,  when  he  had  gone:  ^^Kawkab  Elhor- 
riah  of  to-morrow  will  be  worth  the  money 
Salim  Shofi  asks  for  it.  Khalil  Khayat  has 
been  thinking  great  thoughts  for  writing.  It 
may  that  he  is  to  attack  the  Sultan  again." 
On  the  third  night,  Nageeb  Fiani  came  out 
of  his  room;  and,  when  the  rain  had  swept 
the  noisy  night  traffic  from  the  street,  he 
played  the  new-born  music  for  his  friends, 
and  his  friends'  friends  in  the  back  room  of 
the  shop.  It  was  then  that  the  doctor,  moved 
even  to  tears  and  sobs,  solemnly  said  there 
was  no  greater  player  in  all  the  world,  and 
rising,  called  upon  the  company  to  drink  the 
health  of  Nageeb  Fiani,  his  friend,  the  mas- 
ter of  the  violin. 
"Aie-e-e ! "  all  the  people  cried. 
Now  Fiani  opened  his  eyes  and  looked 
up;  and  he  was  as  though  awakened  sud- 
denly from  dreams  of  distant  gardens.  He 
rose  to  drink,  as  the  custom  is,  and  his  glass 
was  held  high  when  the  swarthy,  bearded  face 
of  the  doctor,  and  the  pungent  smoke  that 
enwreathed  it,  and  the  naked  gas,  flaring 
behind,  had  not    yet  resumed    their   kindly 


V 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 

familiarity.  He  was  sweating  and  white  from 
the  sorrow  that  mothered  the  music;  his 
heart  was  pumping  so  fast  that  it  dammed  his 
throat  with  blood,  so  the  arrack  would  not 
down;  and  he  spluttered  and  sank  into  his 
chair,  wordless.  Whereupon  Khouri,  the  rich 
merchant,  puffed  upon  his  narghile  so  hard 
that  he  sucked  the  reeking  water  into  his 
mouth,  and  spluttered,  also;  and  Sadahala,  the 
scoffer  and  scholar,  grasped  for  the  almonds 
and  got  the  salt  instead,  and  munched  it 
without  knowing  the  difference,  as  Yusef, 
the  boy,  has  told;  and  all  the  people  cried 
"Aie-e-e!"  again,  and  rapped  the  table  until 
the  little  cups  leaped  half  an  inch  and  spilled 
their  scented  contents  over  the  green  baize 
cloth.  Then  Khalil  Khayat,  that  great  writer, 
said  he  would  write  a  song  for  the  new  music, 
to  be  sung  in  the  winter  evenings;  but  never 
did,  for  he  could  not  find  such  tenderness  in 
words. 

All  this  came  to  the  ears  of  the  Quarter, 
and,  then,  no  man  of  it  doubted  that  Nageeb 
Fiani  was  indeed  the  greatest  player  in  all 
the  world;  and  certain  persons,  being  curious 
concerning  the  matter,  went  to  Abotanios,  the 
Archimandrite's  servant,  who  was  a  man  in 

S6 


■■ 


THE   GREATEST    PLAYER 

Aleppo  (by  some  called  Haleb)  when  Fiani 
was  a  grimy  child  there. 
"Tell  us,"  they   said,  catching  him  dozing 
in  the  sunshine  in  Battery  Park,  "what  man- 
ner of  child  Nageeb  Fiani  was." 
Abotanios  screwed  his   gray,  old    face    into 
a    knowing   leer.   "O-ho!"  he   said,   "you 
wish  to  know.  Oh  no!  I  am  too  wily  for  that. 
I  will  not  tell   you."   And    he   would    say 
nothing  until   he  was  persuaded    that  there 
was  no  money  in  the  knowledge  for  any  man. 
Then  he  answered,  speaking  as  thus:  Fiani 
liked  the  music  when  he  was  a  little  lad — oh, 
very  small,  surely  not  higher  than  the  top  of 
the  bench — and  an  idle  one,  caring  nothing 
for  the  profit  of  his  father's  business;  and  he 
was  quick  to  hear  the  tinkle    and  cry,  and 
always  ready  to  quit  work  or  play — it  mat- 
tered not — to  lie  under  the  window  and  listen, 
and  listen,  and  dream.  And  when  the  famous 
Antoon  il  Halabee,  the  Egyptian,  came    to 
reside  at  Aleppo,  Fiani  was  twelve  years  old, 
and  would  sit  at  his  feet;  and  the  father  of 
the  boy  said  that  he  might,  and  paid  much 
money  for  the  privilege,  for  he  was  a  good 
man,  and  Nageeb   would  not  rise  from  the 
floor  nor  stop  his  wailing  until  the  words  were 

57 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 


r 


I 


/'■ 


spoken.  For  years  Nageeb  learned  of  An- 
toon  il  Halabee;  then  a  time  came  when  at 
Safireh  and  Danu  (which  are  near  by)  they 
wished  to  hear  him;  then  he  played  at  other 
places,  many  miles  away:  at  length  the  peo- 
ple of  Aleppo  began  to  say  that  young  Na- 
geeb Fiani  played  better  than  Antoon  il 
Halabee,  his  master;  whereupon  the  lessons 
came  to  an  end,  and  the  Egyptian  betook 
himself  to  Cairo,  where  he  now  lives.  Did 
not  all  men  know  that  the  fame  of  Fiani  had 
extended  from  his  home-town  to  Nejm  and 
Killis,  to  Marah  and  Halebi,  to  the  cities  by 
the  sea,  and  even  to  the  rim  of  the  Great 
Desert?  Was  he  not  known  in  Cairo?  Had 
his  name  not  been  spoken  in  Constantinople? 
"Sure!"  Abotonios  concluded,  positive  to  the 
pitch  of  indignation.  "They  play  his  music 
in  Syria  to  this  very  day,  as  the  Doctor 
Effendi  knows.  There  is  none  greater  than 
he."  The  old  man  shambled  off,  laughing 
scornfully  that  there  should  be  found  men 
with  ears  to  doubt  this  thing. 
When  the  spirit  of  revolution  stalked  abroad 
— as  may  be  set  down  another  time — the 
Minister  from  Turkey  came  of  a  direful  whim 
to  the  Quarter.  To    the  doctor,  as  the  most 

58 


THi:    GREATEST    PLAYER 

important  of  the  Sultan's  Syrian  subjects  in 
Washington  Street,  Hadji,  servant  to  the 
Consul  General,  first  gave  notification  of  his 
coming.  I'he  Important  One,  having  artfully 
concealed  the  chagrin  for  which,  as  he  knew, 
the  practised  Hadji  was  keenly  spying,  dis- 
patched Nageeb,  the  Intelligent,  Abo-Samara's 
little  son,  to  inform  the  Archimandrite  and 
the  rich  men  of  the  Quarter,  and  put  a  flea 
in  his  ear,  no  more  to  give  speed  to  the 
message  than  to  impress  the  Consul's  servant 
with  his  loyal  apprecation  of  the  great  honor. 
Then  he  sent  Hadji "^off  to  his  master  to  say 
that  the  devoted  subjects  of  His  Benign 
Majesty,  the  Sultan — to  whom  might  God, 
their  God,  give  every  good  and  perfect  gift, 
as  it  is  written — alien  from  his  rule  through 
hard  necessity,  but  ever  mindful  of  their 
heritage,  his  service,  would  as  little  children, 
kiss  the  hand  of  him  whom  God  had  blessed 
with  the  high  favor  of  the  ruler  of  precious 
name.  Having  thus  provided  for  his  estab- 
lishment in  the  good  graces  of  the  Minister, 
the  Doctor  locked  the  dispensary  door  and 
threaded  his  way  through  the  buzzing  Quar- 
ter, seeking  one  Abo-Samara  to  warn  him  to 
whisper    no  sedition    on   that    night   as    he 

59 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 


.ii' 


l< 


14 1 


\\ 


\' 


v\ 


valued  the  life  of  his  father  in  Aleppo — as 
may  be  told    again;    seeking,    also,    Nageeb 
Fiani  to  command  his  presence  at  the  recep- 
tion to  play  love  songs  for  the  Minister. 
"Nageeb,"  the  doctor  said,  whispering  ner- 
vously and  in  haste,  "the  Minister  has  come 
from  Washin'ton." 
"The  Minister!  from  Washin'ton!" 
"Himself!" 

"i>*\-h-h!  Is  it  so?"  Ffani  stared  into  the 
d'  or's  restless  little  eyes,  and  his  cigarette 
shook  in  his  fingers — for  why,  his  bashfulness 
told  him. 

"  Within  one  hour  he  will  be  in  the  meeting 
room  of  the  Orthodox  Church.   I — myself — 
have  arranged  it !  " 
"The  Minister!" 

"The  very  Minister  from  Washin'ton!  It  is 
so."  The  doctor  stopped  suddenly;  then 
continued  in  short,  swift  sentences:  "I  will 
have  you  play,  Nageeb.  I  am  as  your  brother. 
I  will  do  this  thing  for  you,  that  your  fame 
may  be  increased.  Yes,  yes — I  will." 
"And  I  am  to  play  !  "  Fiani  tried  to  roll  an- 
other cigarette;  but  his  yellow  fingers  trem- 
bled so  that  he  could  not. 
By    my    love   and   favor,    Nageeb."    The 

60 


(( 


THE    GREATEST    PLAYER 

doctor  puffed  out  his  chest;  his  eyes  bulged 
with  the  importance  of  the  matter.  "All 
things  are  as  I  will — by  order  of  the 
Consul." 

Now,  Fiani  cared  more  for  the  chatter  of 
children  than  for  the  praise  of  great  men; 
more  for  silence  and  familiar  things  than  for 
a  high  seat  in  a  public  place. 
"  Doctaire,"  he  said  weakly,  plaintively,  his 
eyes  in  awkward  interest,  on  the  gas  flame, 
"  What  a  great  player  is  Tanous  Shishim  !  " 
Gathering  confidence,  he  continued:  "  Who 
excels  him  in  swiftness  and  sweetness  on  the 

canoun?   Let " 

"  Nageeb,"  the  doctor  flashed,  frowning,  "the 
Arabs  say  that  he  who  fears  to  trust  his  own 
arm  will  not  prosper.  This  night  shall  you 
play  love  songs  for  the  Minister."  Out  he 
strutted,  his  head  held  high,  and  left  Fiani  in 
a  fever  of  trepidation,  knowing  that  what  the 
doctor  commanded  must  surely  come  to 
pass. 

The  Minister  was  gracious  and  sober  when 
Fiani  began  to  play. 

"  Ah-h  !"  he  exclaimed,  commanding  silence. 
"An  artist!  M-m-m ! "  He  nodded  his 
head  in  time,  and  sang:  "  La,  la,  la,  la;  la-a-a- 

6i 


Pi 


r»' 


'> 


tn 


Mi , 


THi:  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

a,  a-a,  o-o-o-o."  Now  he  was  tapping  the 
floor  with  his  feet  and  swaying  his  head  and 
gently  clapping  his  hands.  Fiani  lost  con- 
sciousness of  the  circle  of  dark,  glowing  eyes 
fixed  upon  him.  "  La-a-a-a-a,"  the  Minister 
sang,  and  the  people  hummed  with  him, 
swaying  their  bodies  as  he  did.  "  La,  la,  la- 
o-o-o-e-e-e-o.  An  artist!"  the  Minister 
exclaimed  again.  "A  great  player!" 
"Aie-e-e!"  the  people  cried,  and  again: 
"Aie-e-e!  Aie-e-e-e!"  They  noted  the 
Minister's  words,  and  nodded  and  nodded, 
each  to  the  other  as  though  to  say:  "It  is 
even  so.  Nageeb  Fiani  is  the  greatest  player 
in  all  the  world."  Awe  touched  the  respect 
with  which  they  looked  upon  him. 
The  doctor  was  the  patron  of  all  deserving 
persons;  having  a  deep,  red  heart,  and  a 
pure  little  delight  in  the  display  of  his  influ- 
ence. Now  when,  at  last,  the  Minister — 
his  eyes  being  heavy  from  the  arrack,  and  the 
fingers  of  the  Master  weary  with  much  play- 
ing— promised  with  maudlin  munificence  to 
decorate  Fiani  with  the  Medal  of  Art  from 
Constantinople  (which  never  came),  at  once 
the  doctor  was  persuaded  that  there  was  not 
room  enough  in  Washington  Street  for  the 

62 


I    ' 


THE    GRKATKST    PLAYER 

glory  of  this  Master,  and  puzzled  how  his 
fame  might  be  spread  to  the  shadowy  upper 
city — even  to  the  palaces  of  the  princes  of 
the  American  people.    In  such  pre-occupa- 
tion,  he  scandalously   bungled    the  compli- 
ments he  had  shaped  for  the  last  address  to 
the  Minister — and  suffered  a  commensurate 
loss  of  reputation  in  consquence. 
"O  Nageeb,  talented  one,"  he  exclaimed,  as, 
in  the  after-glow  of  the  night's  honors,  they 
went  swiftly,  arm  in  arm,  toward  the  pastry- 
cook's shop,  "it  is  not  enough  that  the  people 
of  Washin'ton  Street  should  praise  you.    Is 
your  genius  to  be  concealed  from  the  great 
American  people?  It  must  not  be  so.  I,  my- 
self, will  arrange  the  matter,  and  thereby  you 
will    have   greater   glory   and  much — much 
money." 

The  doctor  tapped  himself  on  the  chest  and 
twisted  his  mustache  to  a  proud  angle.  Fiani 
seemed  to  ponder  his  words ;  but,  at  length 
he  said,  abruptly:  "The  Minister  is  a  good 
man;  therefore,  is  his  master,  the  Sultan,  a 
good  man.  What  is  all  this  foolish  talk  of 
revolution?  He  said:  '  He  is  an  artist.'  " 
"  I  heard  the  very  words  with  my  own  ears," 
said  the  doctor. 

63 


^; 


THE  SOUL  OF  THK   STREET 

When  they  came  to  the  little  back  room  of 
the  shop,  Kiani  called  for  coffee  and  narghiles, 
clapping  his  hands  sharply.  He  was  strung 
to  the  highest  pitch,  and  there  was  a  new, 
strident  note  of  authority  in  his  voice  that 
made  Yusef,  the  boy,  stop  and  turn  and 
stare — and  go  on  slowly,  wondering  what 
had  shriveled  this  man's  gentleness  of  bear- 
ing. Soon  the  steaming  cups  were  set  out, 
the  coals  on  the  narghiles  glowing,  the  water 
bubbling  busily,  the  air  heavy  with  smoke; 
the  while,  the  contents  of  the  cups  exhaled 
a  sweet,  familiar  perfume,  obscuring  all  per- 
ception of  the  variance  in  the  ways  of  peoples. 
The  doctor  leaned  far  over  the  table — Fiani 
stretched  his  neck;  they  brought  their  heads 
together,  and  talked  as  two  conspirators. 
"And  now,  Nageeb  F'iani,  greater  glory 
is  your  due,"  the  doctor  whispered. 
"  I  am  a  great  player,"  Fiani  said,  reflectively, 
"a  grea-at  player !"  He  sent  a  great  whiff 
of  smoke  swirling  toward  the  gas  flame,  and 
absently  watched  it  spread  and  disperse, 
"You  must  have  more  money — much 
more." 

"  Call  to  mind  what  the  Minister  said.   Did 
)  ou  hear " 


64 


THK   GREATEST    PLAYER 

"Yes,  and  again  yes;  he  said  *  an  artist.'" 
"Ah-h-h!" 

'*  You  are  to  have  the  Medal  of  Art  from  Con- 
stantinople. It  is  a  great  honor." 
"Ah-h-h-h!"  Fiani  threw  back  his  head 
and  looked  the  doctor  in  the  eyes  with  a  sure 
proud  smile.  He  toyed  with  the  long  tube 
of  the  narghile,  twisting  it  into  odd  shapes. 
"  Ah-h  !  "  he  sighed  again.  "  I  am  indeed  a 
grea-at  player.  As  a  child  I  knew  it,  and 
now  all  men  know  it,  even  from  the  lips  of 
the  Minister  himself." 

"  There  is  no  greater  artist,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  Now,  Nageeb  Fiani,  I  know  it  for  estab- 
lished truth."  He  tapped  the  table  with  his 
finger  tips,  to  emphasize  his  words,  as  he 
said:  "Is  your  name  to  be  spoken  but  in 
Washin'ton  Street?  Is  your  music  to  sound 
only  in  the  ears  of  the  people  of  cellars  and 
little  rooms,  wherein  men  live  like  sheep  in 
a  great  ship?  Shall  this  delight  be  withheld 
from  the  ears  of  the  great  American  people  ? 
It  must  not  be  so.  Leave  the  arrangement 
of  the  matter  to  me." 

"  How  many  months  must  pass  before  I  pin 
the  medal  here — in  this  place  ?  "  Fiani  traced 
a  circle  on  his  waistcoat,  over  his  heart, 

65 


V, 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

Swift,  exclusive  thought  was  contorting  the 
doctor's  face;  at  that  moment  there  was  no 
place  in  his  bristling  pate  for  such  trivial 
speculation.  After  a  silence,  which  Fiani  had 
no  interest  to  disturb,  being  busy  with  his 
own  dreams,  the  doctor  said,  quickly  :  "  I 
have  thought  of  a  way.  Yes — yes!  It  is  a 
sure  way  for  wary  feet.  Nageeb  Fiani,  whom 
honor  approaches,  perchance  you  will  soon 
be  musician  to  the  Mayor  of  N'  York." 
"  Who  is  this  man  ?  " 

"  He  is  the  ruler  of  the  city."  The  doctor 
paused  and  continued,  doubtfully  frowning : 
"Yet  I  have  heard  that  there  is  one  greater 
— whom  they  call  the  Boss." 
"  Ah,"  exclaimed  Fiani,  catching  at  the  famil- 
iar word.  "It  is  for  him  the  p'ieecem'n  take 
tribute." 

"  It  is  so,"  said  the  doctor.  "But  the  Mayor 
is  great  enough,  for  does  he   not  keep  the 
keys  of  the  treasury  in  his  pocket? " 
"He  will  have  to  pay  i^-^ch,"    Fiani    said, 

positively,  "for  so  great  a  piayer " 

"  Nageeb,"  the  doctor  interrupted,  speaking 
impressively,  "it  may  be  that  you  have  seen 
the  Great  Desert?  Then,  I  say,  if  every 
grain  of  sand  were  a  golden  dollar j  the  sum 

66 


i\  ■ 


iv. 


THE    GREATEST    PLAYER 

of  all  would  not  equal  to  the  wealth  of  this 
people! " 

"  Doctaire,  y-you  are  my  friend,"  Fiani 
stammered,  staring.  "  I  am  in  your  hands 
henceforth." 

The  doctor  went  home  with  his  shoulders 
back  and  his  silk  hat  tipped  haughtily  for- 
ward. He  pulled  his  mustache  and  puffed 
out  his  chest,  thinking  of  the  fortune  he  had 
brought  to  Fiari,  as  though  it  were  already 
accomplished,  until  he  jumped  into  bed;  and 
when  he  got  up  in  the  morning  he  still  had 
the  artless  conviction  that  MacNamarra  of  the 
corner  saloon  had  some  small  appointment 
at*  his  pleasure — it  might  be,  as  under 
musician  to  that  spectral  prince,  the  Mayor 
of  New  York.  So  he  polished  his  old  silk 
hat  and  scrupulously  combed  his  beard  and 
gave  a  staple,  upward  twist  to  his  mustache, 
and  drew  on  tight,  yellow  gloves — thus  ac- 
complishing a  moth-eaten  air  of  distinction. 
An  hour  later,  he  took  Fiani  in  tow  to  the 
corner  saloon;  but  the  Master  had  come  into 
his  humility  again  over  night,  and  held  back 
from  the  threshold,  pleading  to  be  permitted 
to  go  home.  Then  the  doctor  commanded, 
and  the  Master  followed  in,  like  a  reluctant 

67 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 


r.  ? ' 


I''  ) 


trained  dog,  slinking  abashed;  hut  the  doc- 
tor carried  himself  boldly,  presuming  upon 
an  acquaintance  effected  just  before  the  vot- 
ing was  done — the  voting  of  mysterious  im- 
port   and  outcome.    Alderman  MacNamarra 
was  found  leaning  over  the  bar,  in  glittering 
idleness,  talking  to  a  truckman   and  a  street 
sweeper  who   busied  themselves  at  the   free 
lunch   counter,  where    ham   sandwiches    and 
baked  beans  and  potato  salad   were  set   out, 
and  there  was  a  single  fork,  which  the  truck- 
man and  the  sweeper  used  amicably  by  turns. 
"  W'at'll  ut  be,    boys?"  said   MacNamarra, 
leisurely,  having  sauntered  the  length  of  the 
bar. 

"  No,  n-o  !  "  the  doctor  stammered.  "  Eet 
— eet  ees  not  a  dreenk — no,  no,  not  thaf- 
Meester  M^jNamarra,"  waiving  a  hand  to- 
ward Fiani,  who  salaamed  and  blushed  and 
began  to  sweat  through  very  bashfulness, 
"eet  is  a  frien'  to  me.  Hem!  I  eenter- 
dooce  Meester  Fiani.  I  am  now  ask  heem  to 
play.  Fine  player — ver'  fine.  When  he  have 
play  then  weel  I  speak  what — what  eet  eeseen 
my  min'."  The  doctor  tapped  his  corrugated 
forehead  illuminatively ;  and  continued : 
"  Ver'      fine      museek — Oriental     museek. 

68 


f 


I 


THE    GRl^ATKST    FLAYER 

Ver' fine !  Meester  Fiani  he  play  eet  ver' 
good — ho,  ver',  ver*  good ;  better  than  all 
Syrian  people — not  onlee  een  Washin'ton 
Street — no  ;  better  than  the  whole  Syrian 
people  een  all — all  the  vvorl' !  Meester  Fiani 
he  have — he  ees  an  arteest.  You  have  know 
when  he  play.  Maybee  there  ees  some  a-p- 
pointment  for  heem.  Eet  make  good  the  re- 
la-tion-sheep  between  the  Syrians  and  the 
great  American  people.  Eet  may  be  there 
ees  one — who  knows  ? — eet  may  be.  When 
the  Mayor — excellent  preence  ! — have  eat 
each  day,  maybe  he  like  to  have  hear 
Meester  Fiani  play.  I  speak  more  when  he 
have  play."  Again  the  doctor  waived  his 
hand  toward  Fiani,  and  said  to  him  in 
Arabic :  "Now,  O  Nageeb,  display  your 
talent  given  of  God." 

Fiani  fitted  the  butt  of  his  violin  under  his 
chin  and  sat  down  under  a  picture  of  the 
shattered  battleship  Maine  and  was  at  once 
composed.  The  doctor  withdrew  into  ob- 
scurity, like  a  showman,  his  introduction 
said. 

MacNamarra,  restraining  his  guffaws  only 
that  there  might  be  greater  cause  for  them, 
stared    stolidly;    and    the    sweeper   and  the 

69 


If* 


n 


THi:  SOUL  OV  THi:   SfRKKT 

truckman,  scenting  a  game,  abandoned  the 
lunch  counter. 

"1  am  now  play  for  you,"  said  Fiani,  proud- 
ly, looking  up;   then   smiling  like  a  child: 
"I  am  not  play  'Hotl'own.'  American  like 
*  Hot  Town.'   No,  I  am  not  play  eet."   He 
crossed  his  legs  and  hunched  his  shoulders, 
and  let  his  head  sink  over  the  body  of  the 
violin.  The  look  that   made   men  call    him 
the  dreamer  settled  on  his  face.  "  I  am  play 
of  Love — eet  ees  call  '  Lali,'  "  he  said. 
"  Ah !   I    mus'    ex-plain,"    said    the  doctor, 
quickly  stepping  forward,  and,  with  osten- 
tation,   slapping    his    hand   with  his  yellow 
gloves;  and  his  eyes  were  snapping  with  the 
pleasure  he  found  in  imparting  something  of 
curious  interest    to    these    knowing  people. 
"Ah,  yes!     Thees    museek,    what    he   now 
play.  M-m-m-m!  Eet  was  made  by  a  preence 
een    Arabia  who    was  blin' — yes,  made  for 
nine    hun'red    year!     An'    eet   go    een    one 
man's  ear  an'  een  the  ear  of  hees  son,    an' 
hees    son    an'    hees  an'    hees — many,  many 
men — ho,    many!  An'  now    Meester   Fiani 
he  play  eet.  What  you  theenk?"  The  doctor 
fooked  around  upon  the  company,  exhibiting 
himself  the  astonishment  he  was  persuaded 

70 


1 


1^ 


THK  gri:ati<:st  playkr 

must  be  in  them;  and  went  on:  "Thees 
preence  he  love  one  ladyee.  He,  beau-uti- 
ful  she  was!  There  have  been  no  ladyee  so 
beautiful.  An'  she  love  heem  not— no,  not 
at  all.  How  sad !  Then  he  made  thees 
museek  an'  go  mad,  an'  die  mad — yes,  yes — 
die  mad  of  love!  What  you  theenk?" 
Again  the  doctor  paused  for  effect;  and 
Fiani  ran  his  bow  impatientlv  over  the 
strings. 

"  Begob,"  said  MacNamarra,  "I  t'ink  eet's 
a  tin  roof!  "  He  set  out  brimming  glasses  for 
the  truckman  and  the  sweeper,  who  gleefully 
advanced  to  drink. 

"Ha!"  the  doctor  exclaimed,  doubtfully. 
"  I  am  now  play,"  Fiani  said,  solemnly;  and 
he  closed  his  eyes  and  began  to  play. 
The  "Song  of  Love  to  Lali"  is  full  of  the 
notes  that  cannot  be  written — of  swift  touches 
and  light,  fleeting  pressure  in  awkward  places; 
of  hair's-breadth  differences,  of  long-drawn 
notes,  like  the  sinking  of  a  man's  heart,  even 
the  heart  of  a  strong  man,  of  tremulous,  wail- 
ing bow  lengths  and  half-heard  quavers. 
Now,  there  is  a  certain  meaning  in  all — 
chaotic  emotion :  boast  and  plaint  and  be- 
seeching,   and  deepest  melancholy,  and  the 

71 


Il'i 


I  ; 


■  t'    '  h 


THK  SOUL  OF  THI,   STRIvKT 

conviction  of  hopelessness  and  crazed  de- 
spair, and  groan  and  gasp  and  the  sigh  of 
death;  but  the  meaning  is  for  such  hearts  as 
the  hearts  of  the  people  ofthe  blind  prince  who 
made  the  song  and  died  mad  of  love — such 
as  are  born  in  the  land;  nor  is  the  song  to 
be  understood  by  any  other,  nor  by  such  as 
have  not  loved  as  he  loved;  nor  can  any 
man  interpret  it  to  a  stranger,  even  as  the 
masters  of  music  say.  To  such  as  play  it,  it 
is  as  a  shaded  well,  and  to  such  as  hear  and 
know,  it  is  as  ointment  to  a  festered  sore; 
but  to  such  as  hear  and  cannot  understand, 
it  is  as  the  slow  turning  of  a  wheel  upon  a 
dry  axle — even,  it  may  be,  as  a  red  mantle 
and  the  flare  of  trumpets  to  a  nervous  bull, 

and  some 

The  bamboo  door  was  softly  swung  open, 
and  Tommy  Dugan,  late  from  Ireland, 
peeped  in.  "Hi!"  he  screamed,  turning 
out  to  beckon.  "Fellers!  Hi-i!  Mac- 
Namarra's  killin*  pigs !  " 
Alderman  MacNamarra  ofthe  elect  of  Tam- 
many Hall,  laughed.  Mrs.  Halloran,  of  the 
tenement  across  the  road,  said,  afterward, 
that  she  "  t'ought  a  sody-wather  machane  had 
bust — begob,"  but  the  sweeper  and  the  truck- 

72 


i  ^ 


THi:    GRKATKSr    PLAVl^R 

man,  who  had  had  a  part  in  that  great  noise, 
held  with  MacNamarra  when  he  said  that  he 
had  but  hiughed;  and,  in  point  of  fact,  there 
was  nothing  more — save  the  chish  of  glass; 
for  the  alderman's  corpulent  body  fell  limp 
against  the  bar,  and  rolled  back  against  the 
gilded,  mirrored  sideboard,  tumbling  glasses 
and  goblets  into  a  litter  and  heap  of  shiv- 
ered bits  on  the  floor.  Nor  could  he  save 
himself,  for  he  was  breathless;  and  dared  not 
let  go  his  sides  for  the  ache  in  them;  and  he 
collapsed  behind  the  bar,  where  he  lay,  shak- 
ing like  a  mould  of  jelly  and  cackling  apo- 
plectically, until  the  sweeper  andthe  truckman, 
themselves  screeching,  staggering,  dragged 
him  out  in  haste  and  slushed  a  pail  of  water 
over  his  blue  face.  Then  he  went  home  to 
bed,  and  had  Mrs.  MacNamarra  call  a 
physician  and  priest;  and  to  this  day  you 
cannot  speak  with  impunity  of  the  Mayor's 
under  musician  to  Alderman  MacNamarra, 
for  the  alderman  is  apoplectic  and  afraid  to 
die. 

•  •••••••• 

That  night,  when  the  last  die  had  been 
thrown  and  the  last  coffee  drinker  had  gone, 
and  the  shop  was  quiet,  Fiani   came   out   of 

73 


m 


M'-' 


p. 


It 

*    I       1 


TllK  SOUL  OK    rUK   STRKIT 

the  darkness  of  his  room,  bringing  the  vio- 
lin with  him.  I'he  doctor  was  waiting  in  the 
Httle  back  room,  and  had  the  gas  turned  low. 
Fiani  crept  in,  shamefaced,  and  sat  down; 
his  eyes  were  shot  with  blood,  and  the  lids 
sagged,  as  though  from  long  weeping.  For 
long  was  no  word  spoken;  but  these  two  sat 
together  in  that  silent,  mysterious  interchange 
of  sympathy.  Then  came  the  time  when 
Fiani  rose  and  drew  himself  up;  saying  with 
a  proud  face  and  a  slap  of  his  hand  upon  the 
table:  "Oh,  doctaire,  truest  friend  of  mine — 
still  am  I  a  grea-at  player!"  His  courage 
broke  again,  and  he  flung  himself  over  the 
table,  one  arm  thrown  over  the  violin,  and 
his  head  on  the  other;  and  the  noise  of  his 
weeping  was  very  great.  "La,  la,  la!"  the 
doctor  crooned,  and  he  leaned  over  the 
master  and  stroked  his  bushy  hair,  still 
crooning,  "  La,  ia,  la-a-a  ! "  until  the  shoul- 
ders heaved  less.  Then  he  went  out,  sad  at 
heart.  When  he  came  to  the  outer  door  he 
stopped  and  made  as  though  to  return;  but  he 
heard  the  violin  wail  like  a  sick  child,  and 
went  his  way  with  a  brighter  face,  leaving  the 
Master  to  himself,  to  play  again  the  "Song  of 
Love  to  Lali." 

74 


;M:i 


I.  J 


R)R    VHK   HAND  OK   HAIJ,|;M 


Ml 


MH 


ll^ 


i: 


I  L 


I 


FOR    'mi:    HANI)    OF    HAIJJ.IsM 


ASHINGTON  Street 

had  not  yielded  to  the 
music  of  the  hand ; 
the  ears  of  Syrians  are 
racked  by  brass  and 
reed  in  the  muscuhir 
mouths  of  men  who 
fix  their  understand- 
ing upon  strange, 
bhick  signs  —  glaring  with  their  eyes  at  the 
printed  page  —  and  hold  their  hearts  in  the 
leash.  It  is  contained  in  the  first  writing  of 
Khalil  Khayat,  the  editor,  whom  all  men  hon- 
or, that  noise  is  born  of  the  servitor  Intellect, 
but  music  is  child  of  the  Wandering  Soul  ; 
and  Khalil  Khayat,  as  men  know,  speaks  with 
authority  concerning  the  things  of  the  hidden 
heart  of  man.  The  relief  of  space  and  breeze 
and  evening  shadow,  the  repose  of  sprawling, 
and  low,  easy  chatter  —  the  long  full  breath 
of  the  day's  end  —  had  drawn  the  swarthy 
people  to  Battery  Park  ;  the  band  disturbed 
the  solemn  night,  as  a  trivial  word  a  funeral  — 
obscuring  the  distant,  long-drawn  whistles  in 
which,  as  Nageeb  Fiani  says,  there  is  more 
music  for  some  ears  ;  and  drowning  the  twitter 
and  rustle  in  the  trees,  and  the  restful  swish 


I  << 


d: 


1>  ^.  .^^ 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


// 


.// 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


1^128 

it       1^ 


1^ 

II  2.2 
12.0 


1-4    III  1.6 


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^ 


/a 


A 


y 


/^ 


L^ 


Q 


p 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 


V. 


I': 


of  the  waves  breaking  against  the  sea-wall. 
Battery  Place  and  Whitehall,  from  the  old  to 
the  urchins  thereof,  had  come,  frankly  eager  to 
hear  the  band.  Rag-time  and  sentimental 
ballads — itching  soles  and  a  fleeting  thought 
of  love — move  the  native  young  of  the  ten- 
ements to  double  shuffles  and  tears,  fast  fol- 
low as  they  may;  and  there  is  no  resisting  the 
impulses  if  the  hearts  beat  true.  So  Battery 
Place  and  Whitehall  made  love  and  skylarked 
near  the  bandstand;  and  Washington  Street 
mooned  afar  off  in  the  outlying  shadows. 
The  roguish  influence  of  Love  in  hiding 
shifted  young  Alois  Awad,  Ameer  of  the 
seventh  generation,  and  Haleem,  Khouri's 
sloe-eyed  daughter,  to  the  solitude  of  the 
edge  of  the  crowd;  and  Alois,  having  glutted 
his  eyes  with  the  crimson  and  gray  and  gold 
of  the  train  of  the  sun,  turned,  as  with  the 
courage  of  impulse,  and  whispered,  desper- 
ately, the  disquieting  words:  "What  did 
Antar  say  of  Abla,  his  beloved,  the  daughter 
of  Malik,  when  his  heart  was  sore?"  he 
asked;  and  he  thought  she  must  surely  hear 
the  complainings  of  his  heart. 
"To  his  beloved?'*  She  lingered  over  the 
last  word. 

78 


\\i 


■I  '1 


FOR  THE  HAND  OF  HALEEM 

"To  the  beloved  of  his  heart,"  he   answered, 

solemn  as  an  earnest  child. 

"It   is    known  to  you,  O    Alois,"   she   said 

with   a   quick,  trustful    smile.     "Therefore, 

how  shall  my  ignorance   fret    me?       I — I — 

think  all  things  are  known  to  you,"  she  went 

on  softly.    "All  things  written,  anyway;    for 

Khalil  Khayat  has  taught  you." 

Haleem    bent    her    head;   and   the    breeze, 

verily  as  though  won  to  the  sport  of  Love, 

fluttered  a  tress  of  black  hair  out  of  place  to 

hide  the  arch  light  in  her  eyes. 

"This,  Antar  said,  "  Alois  faltered,  pushing 

his    tarboosh   up    from   his    hot,  wet  brow. 

"This,  he " 

Alois's  throat  was  suddenly  parched  stiff; 
nor  could  he  form  one  more  word. 
"Are  the  words  hard  to  recall  ?" 
"No-o;  the  words  are  well  known  to  me." 
Haleem  brushed  back  the  fluttering  tress, 
and  the  sight  of  her  little  hand  and  the  bloom 
on  her  cheeks  gave  Alois  the  swift  confidence 
of  infatuation.  He  pointed  to  the  flaring  sky 
over  the  Jersey  shore.  "These,"  he  went 
on,  "are  the  words  of  Antar,  spoken  of  his 
beloved:  *The  sun  as  it  sets  turns  toward 
her  and  says,  "Darkness  obscures  the   land, 

79 


THl',  SOUL  OF  THE  STRFET 


i' 


t 


% 

i 

r 


do  thou  arise  in  my  absence."  The  brilliant 
moon  calls  out  to  her,  "Come  forth,  for  thy 
face  is  like  me,  when  1  am  at  the  full  and  in 
all  my  glory."  The  tamarisk  trees  complain 
of  her  in  the  morn  and  in  the  eve,  and  say, 
"Away,  thou  waning  beauty,  thou  form  of 
the  laurel!"  She  turns  away  abashed,  and 
throws  aside  her  veil,  and  the  roses  are  scat- 
tered from  her  soft  fresh  cheeks  .  .  . 
Graceful  in  every  limb;  slender  her  waist; 
love  beaming  are  her  glances ;  waving  is  her 
form  ....  The  lustre  of  day  sparkles 
from  her  forehead,  and  by  the  dark  shades 
of  her  curling  ringlets  night  itself  is  driven 

away Will    fortune    ever,    O 

daughter  of  Malik,  ever  bless  me  with  thy 
embrace  ?  That  would  cure  my  heart  of  the 
sorrows  of  love !  " 

The  voice  of  young  Alois  had  risen  from 
husky  stuttering  to  the  cadence  of  rap'-ure ; 
thus,  always,  the  poetry  of  love  moved  him. 
The  words  were  Antar's,  spoken,  in  times 
long  past,  on  a  sandy  waste,  far,  far  away  from 
where  the  elevated  engine  snorted  over  the 
long,  smutty  curve  to  the  South  Ferry  ter- 
minal :  but  the  vibrant  anguish  and  the 
pleading  of  the  last  cry,  the  eternal  passion, 

80 


I     ^ 


I 


FOR  THE  HAND  OF  HALEEM 

were  of  the  pregnant  moment,  young  Alois's. 
They  rang  true  in  the  ears  of  Haleem  ;  and 
her  heart  answered,  leaping,  yet  afraid,  as  a 
cub  lion,  captive  born,  might  sniff  and  whine 
with  its  first  breath  of  the  jungle.  Ah,  she 
was  a  daughter  of  the  Land,  was  little  Haleem! 
It  was  the  first  bold  word  of  love  she  had 
heard ;  and  it  was  as  though,  now,  suddenly, 
she  had  come  to  the  crest  of  a  hill,  and  a  fair, 
broad  land,  a  land  of  gardens  anjd  rivers  and 
shady  places — her  land,  the  very  riches  of 
her  womanhood — was  spread  at  her  feet,  with 
a  sure  path  to  tread,  and  a  golden  vista,  lead- 
ing whither  the  sun  was  rising,  all  rosy.  So 
her  heart  throbbed,  and  there  was  a  new, 
strange  pain  in  it:  and  she  wrung  her  little 
hands  cruelly — though  Alois  would  have 
given  a  year  for  a  kiss  of  the  flushing  finger 
tips — and  she  turned  her  brown  eyes  to  the 
harbor,  where  there  was  nothing  to  delight  in 
them — though  Alois  could  have  wandered 
life-long  in  their  depths.  For,  indeed,  she  was 
very  much  afraid. 

"Antar,"  Alois  stammered,  perceiving,  and 
ready  to  weep  for  regret  that  he  had  disquieted 
her,  "he — he — was  a  bold  man.  Shame 
to  him,  if  she  suffered  !  " 

8i 


-TT- 


i 

It 

7;. 


»/' 


M, 


I  '      I 


THE  SOUL  OF  THK  STREET 

"  Ht  \c\  A  her  very  much." 
"  Ho!"  Alois  exclaimed.  "His  love  was  very 
great !    Did  he   not  carry  h^  off  from  the 
tents    of    her    people,    even    against    their 
spears?" 

"Had    he    so    great    courage?"     Haleem's 
breath  came  fast  again;  she  stared,  thus  pant- 
ing, at  the  unwieldy  Annex  Ferry    and  its 
luminous  track  of  foam. 
"  Ah,"  Alois  sighed,  "there  is  a  gentler  way, 

and " 

"  Haleem!  Little  daughter!"  Salim  Khouri, 
to  whom  fat  came  with  prosperity,  had 
waddled  within  hearing  distance;  and  his 
was  the  asthmatic  call.  He  came  up  puffing, 
but  smiling  a  broad,  indulgent  smile.  "Little 
Star,"  he  said  in  the  dialect,  taking  one  of 
Haleem's  thick  braids  in  his  chubby  hand  to 
fondle  it,  "now,  ain't  she  a  Little  Star,  Alois? 
Ha-a-a-a!"  His  eyes  twinkled  with  affect'on 
for  her.  He  moved  his  arm  to  the  bench- 
rail  at  her  back;  and  she  sank  against  his 
comfortable  breast,  and,  from  this  safe,  familiar 
place,  flashed  an  inscrutable  smile  to  Alois, 
that  strangely  gave  him  courage.  "She  no 
star,"  Khouri  went  on  in  broken  English. 
"  She 'lectreek  light.  Ho,  ho!  That's  w'at." 

82 


■\ 


FOR  THE  HAND  OK   HALl-I.M 


"  Little  Star — Little  Star,"  Alois  said  in  the 
classic  Arabic.  "That  is  better — Little  Star!" 
"'Lectreek  light,"  Haleem  pouted.  "My 
father  he  say  'lectreek  light." 
Now  Alois  reproached  himself  for  having 
blurted  out  his  passion  in  the  ear  of  his 
helpless  well-beloved  after  the  rough  Western 
fashion — taking  advantage  of  the  liberty  of 
the  land,  forgetful  of  the  gentler,  solemn  way 
of  his  people;  and  so  shamed  was  he  in  his 
own  sight  that,  soon,  he  could  bear  to  sit  no 
longer  with  Haleem  and  her  father,  but 
craved  to  be  where,  in  solitude,  he  could  vent 
the  impulse  of  his  heart.  So  he  said  a  flushing, 
shamefaced  good-night  and  went  away;  and, 
wandering  without  aim,  he  came  to  the  place 
where  the  fire-boat  lay  purring  in  her  dock. 
This  was  a  quiet  place,  shaded  by  the  Aqua- 
rium from  the  noise  of  the  band.  He  sat 
down  where  there  was  a  view  of  the  dark- 
ening harbor — the  shadows  had  long  hidden 
Staten  Island,  and  were  then  closing  round 
the  Statue  of  Liberty — and,  as  he  thought 
dreamily  of  his  own  beloved,  the  words  of 
Antar,  spoken  in  ecstasy,  hurried,  crowding, 
through  his  thoughts,  weaving  themselves 
with  them,  for  they  had  been  in  his  mind 

83 


I  *l 


THE  SOUL  OK  THE   STRKKT 


h> 


f'l,. 


u 


.J/. 


!*! 


many  days:  "*Were  I  to  say  thy  face  is 
like  the  full  moon  of  heaven,  where  in  that 
full  moon  is  the  eye  of  the  antelope?  Were 
I  to  say  thy  shape  is  like  the  branch  of  the 
erak  tree,  O,  thou  shamest  it  in  the  grace  of 
thy  form!  In  thy  forehead  is  my  guide  to 
truth;  and  in  the  night  of  thy  tresses  I 
wander  astray.  Thy  teeth  resemble  stringed 
jewels;  but  how  can  I  liken  them  to  lifeless 
pearls?  Thy  bosom  is  created  as  an  enchant- 
ment— oh,  may  God  protect  it  ever  in  that 
perfection!*"  Now,  the  last  prayer  possessed 
him  utterly.  Again,  and  yet  again,  he  said 
the  words;  and  the  high  cry,  welling  from 
his  heart,  made  his  soul  to  tingle.  His  eyes 
were  suffused  with  tears;  he  looked  up,  and 
it  was  as  though  a  holy  light,  falling  through 
wide,  glowing  gates,  threw  all  things  near 
into  shadow,  and  when  the  heaving,  slimy 
water  at  his  feet  took  form  again,  he  was  not 
so  sad  as  he  had  been. 

"O,  may  God  protect  it  ever  in  that  per- 
fection!'' he  sighed.  "  Little  Star!" 
Elsewhere  in  that  crowded,  dusky  Park, 
Jimmy  Brady  was  looking,  sharp-eyed,  for 
his  Li'l*  Peach.  Affecting  a  loud  merriment 
to  deceive  his  heart  into  quieter  beating,  he 

84 


1 


FOR  THE  HAND  OK  HALKEM 


pried  through  the  crowd  around  the  band- 
stand, searched  the  benches  near  the  Barge 
Office,  threaded  his  way  through  the  moving, 
chattering  throng  on  the  broad  promenade 
near  the  sea-wall,  and  traversed  swiftly  the 
quiet  interior  walks.  Though  tempted  by  the 
invitation  in  many  a  sweet,  bright  eye,  he 
suspended  his  quest  only  to  a  cuffa  bullying 
urchin  and  caress  the  dirtier  bullied  one;  and 
then  he  hesitated  long  enougn  to  catch  and 
cuff  the  bully  again  for  making  the  first 
cuffing  so  obviously  a  duty.  Thus,  while 
Alois  Awad  gazed  out  over  the  darkened 
harbor,  young  Jimmy  Brady — in  the  pride 
of  his  job  at  Swartz  &  Rattery's,  in  the  glory 
of  his  white  duck  trousers  and  rolled-gold 
jewelry  and  natty  new  red  tie,  in  the  hope  of 
his  merry,  sanguine  temperament — searched 
persistently  for  Haleem  the  sloe-eyed,  his 
LiT  Peach,  to  tell  her  that  he  loved  her. 
This  was  Jimmy  of  the  snapping  eye  and 
gentle  heart  and  broad  shoulders  and  ready 
tears  and  quick  right  fist  and  laughing  re- 
joinder and  springy  step  and  bull-dog  pur- 
pose and  strengthening  pull  on  the  alderman 
of  the  ward  and  vocabulary  of  five  hundred 
words.  Lord,  he  had  words  enough!  It  is 

85 


I 


I  i 


(  ,f- 


V  'I 


fi 


I  : 


;' 


THi:  SOUL  OK  THi:   STKKKT 

the  kiss  and  the  hug — the  heart — when  it 
comes  to  love.  I'he  girls  of  the  tenements 
would  be  better  off  if  their  steadies  were  all 
like  him;  for  liker  him,  liker  the  Man.  I 
know  him — I  know  them  all ;  and  that 
which  I  write  is  true. 

"  Ho  !  Meester  Brady.  Good  evenin',  sair," 
said  Khouri  the  merchant,  when  jimmy 
came,  beaming,  to  where  he  sat  with  Ha- 
leem  ;  and  the  Little  Star  looked  up  shyly 
and  nestled  closer  to  her  father's  breast,  that 
she  might  conceal  the  confusion  that  strangely 
overcame  her,  always,  when  Jimmy  Brady 
came  suddenly  into  view. 
"  Wake  'er  up  !  Say,  wake  'er  up,"  Jimmy 
jerked  out;  and  then  he  burst  into  a  loud 
laugh.  "  Say,  she's  in  a  trance." 
"  She  ees  seek — no,"  Khouri  answered  in 
concern,  scratching  his  head. 
"  Aw,  I'm  on'y  stringin'  y'u,"  Jimmy  said 
quickly.  "  Say,  w'ere  d'  y'u  buy  yer  dope  ? 
Ain't  y'u  on?  "  He  looked  at  the  old  man 
in  sly  amusement,  which  Haleem's  light  tit- 
ter fired  into  a  laugh  ;  then  he  caught  Ha- 
leem  by  the  arm  and  drew  her,  insistently, 
gently,  to  her  feet,  and  held  her  there.  "  Aw, 
come  on,"  he  went  on  ;  and  the  wheedling 

86 


FOR  THK   HAND  OF  HALKKM 


a- 
w, 


tone  was  tinged  with  a  certain  masterfulness 
that  sounded  sweet  in  Haleem's  ears  and 
drew  a  swift,  confident  glance  to  his  face. 
"  It's  the  time  we  walk.  Ain't  that  right?  " 
"  Meester  Brady — yes,"  she  answered  softly. 
"  I  go  weeth  you." 

"  Ho  ! "  Khouri  exclaimed,  looking  oflf 
down  the  walk.  "  My  frien',  Meester  Khay- 
at,  he  come.  I  see  heem.  He  have  somethin' 
to  say.  Ver-ee  important.  Eet  have  to  do 
weeth  the  Sultan  of  Turkey.  I  see  eet  een 
hees  face,  eet  ees  so — so — long,  so  ver-ee 
long.  Ho,  ho  !  Take  her  weeth  you,  Mees- 
ter Brady.  Take  her ;  sure,  eet  ees  the  Land 
of  Liberty  !  " 

Young  Jimmy,  in  the  silence  of  deepest  sus- 
pense, led  his  LiT  Peach  to  a  deserted 
bench,  over  which  a  kindly  spreading  bush 
cast  a  seclusive  shadow ;  and  there  they  sat 
down,  having  spoken  not  one  single  word  on 
the  way.  Haleem  gave  him  many  an  obser- 
vant side-glance  in  the  meek,  covert  way  her 
people  know ;  and  now,  as  his  lithe  strength 
and  bold,  eager  face  impressed  her  young 
heart  anew,  it  flashed  over  her,  ecstatically, 
that  this  was  Antar,  born  again,  and  she, 
Abla,  his  beloved,  whom  he  had  carried  off 

87 


hi 


» 


i: 


i 


>? 


THE  SOUL  OF  THK  STRKKT 

in  the  night,  triumphantly,  even  against  the 
spears  of  his  enemies  ;  and  she  closed  her 
eyes,  and  wished  that  the  green  bench  and 
the  flag-stones  and  the  salty  breeze  and  the 
swinging,  glaring  arc-lamp  and  all  the  chatter 
might  be  changed,  magically,  as  of  old,  into 
a  swift,  coursing  steed  and  the  sands  of  the 
desert  and  the  free,  hot  breath  of  the  night 
and  a  million  twinkling  stars  and  the  cries  of 
pursuing  enemies.  As  for  Jimmy,  he  won- 
dered at  his  fading  courage,  and  laughing 
doubtfully  in  his  sleeve,  thought  of  the 
young  light-weight  he  had  seen  in  the 
squared  circle  at  the  Eagle  Athletic  Club  the 
night  before,  overmatched,  up  against  it  for 
fair — but  game,  game  to  the  finish  ! 
"  Meester  Brady,"  Haleem  said  at  last,  pok- 
ing fun  at  him  in  a  sly  way,  "  you  have  say 
we  walk.  You  forget.  Eet  ees  fun-ee." 
"  Eh  !  "  Jimmy  ejaculated  ;  then  staring  ab- 
straction took  hold  of  him  again. 
The  distant  band  struck  up  a  swinging  music- 
hall  song — about  the  Only  Girl — that  then  ran 
riot  in  men's  ears.  The  music  and  the  voices 
of  the  people,  singing,  came,  mellowed  and 
undulant,  through  the  space  between. 
"  Y'u're  it !  "  Jimmy  burst  out  explosively  ; 

88 


FOR    THK  HAND  OK  HALKEM 


he  turned  to  her,  but  stopped  dead,  shiver- 

"It?  Wat  ees — eet  ?  "  she  asked-  nursing 
her  lips. 

"  Her  !    Y'u're    her  !  Lord,   y'u're  slow  !  " 
Jimmy's  voice  would   have  savored    of  dis- 
gust had  it  not  been  saturated  with  a  deeper 
emotion. 
"Hair?" 

"  The  On'y  One — me  Honey."  Jimmy  had 
the  anxious  face  of  a  man  on  trial,  when  the 
foreman  of  the  jury  stands  up,  solemnly,  and 
the  courtroom  is  hushed. 
"  Ah,"  she  sighed,  shaking  her  head,  "  1  do 
not  know  eet." 

"  Can't    y'u    hear    'em    sing  ? "    he    plain- 
ted. 
"  Ain't  y'u  got  no  ears  ?  Y'u're  it,  I  tell  y'u 

Y»      »  »      »  L  >» 

u  re — y  u  re — her. 

The  song  came  out  of  the  distance  again, 
blurred  by  the  wind,  which  swept  it  from 
side  to  side. 

"Hear  it!"  said  Jimmy,  raising  his  hand. 
Haleem  prettily  cocked  her  ear,  and  listened. 
The  heart  of  Jimmy  was  going  like  a  piston- 
rod  ;  and  he  was  gulping  to  keep  his  throat 
moist  and  fit. 

89 


\^ 


J.I 


/I 


i; 


/: 


!l' 


THK  SOUL  OK  THK  SIRKET 

"  Just  one  girl,  only  just  one  girl  ; 

There  are  others,  I  know,  but  they're  not  my  pearl. 

Just  one  girl,  only  just  one  girl  ; 

I'd  be      ppy  forever  with  just  one  girl." 

"  Ain't  y'u  on  ?  "  Jimmy  asked  in  a  drawn, 
hollow  whisper.  "  Ain't  it  penetrated  yet  ?  " 
His  honest  heart  was  near  to  bursting ;  he 
hitched  closer  and  looked  down  in  her  eyes, 
craving  the  light  of  love.  "  Y'u're  it — me 
honey — me  sweet-thing  !  "  Did  he,  after  all, 
have  words  enough  ?  He  went  on  desper- 
ately, plunging  to  the  end.  "  Folio*  me  ? 
Can't  y'u  j^d'.''  Me  honey — the  on'y  one — 
me  peach  !  "  There  was  no  responsive  light 
in  Haleem'seyes — only  a  wondering  shadow. 
His  passion  disclosed  itself  slowly.  The 
shameful,  effeminate  words  were  forced  out 
of  his  throat,  at  last ;  but  he  gulped  long, 
before  he  would  give  them  utterance.  "  I 
love  y'u,"  he  cried  tremulou  ly,  stretching 
his  arms  out.  "  Hell  !  I  /ove  y'u  !  "  Then  he 
took  her  hand,  and  waited  for  a  sign  ;  and 
he  was  white  and  gfoggy,  and  he  knew  it. 
Haleem  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes, 
and  cried  quietly  ;  but  she  left  her  little  hand 
lying  inclosed  in  Jimmy  Brady's  great, 
thrilling  palms. 

90 


m 


,i 


! 


FOR  7  HK   HAND  OK   HALKl.M 

"  Drop  it !  Stop  it !  "  Jimmv  exclaimed,  im- 
pulsively, his  own  lips  twitching ;  for  he 
thought  he  had  his  sign.  "  Don't  y'u  cry  any 
more,  li'l'  girl.  I  ain't  got  no  kick  comin'.  I 
take  me  punishment  like  a  man.  Look  at 
me.  Cast  yer  orb  on  me  face."  He  turned  a 
brave  face  up  to  her;  but  she  would  not 
look,  and  had  she  looked,  she  would  have 
seen  tears  in  his  eyes — but  not  tears  of  pity 
for  himself;  then,  he  was  regretting  only  her 
distress.  *'  It's  all  right,"  he  went  on  dog- 
gedly. "Don't  cry.  I  ain't  goin'  t'  say  any 
more.  I'm  done,  I  tell  y'u.  Y'u'll  git  a  bet- 
ter man  'n  me.  It's  all  right.  There  ain't  no 
kick  comin'  here — honest,  there  ain't.  Stop 
it !  "  he  cried,  in  agony.  "  Y'u're  breakin'  me 
heart.  I  didn't  mean  t'  make  y'u  cry.  I'm 
takin'  me  punishment  all  right."  He  pulled 
her  hand  away  from  her  eyes ;  and  through 
her  tears  she  smiled  at  him.  "  That's  all 
right,  li'l'  girl,"  he  crooned.  "  Y'u  won't  be 
bothered  wit'  me  any  more.  I'm  hurt,"  he 
moaned,  "  oh,  I'm  hurt  awful;  but  it's  all 
right.  Y'u'll  git  a  better  man.  Come  on 
home  now,  li'l'  girl.  Don't  be  afraid.  I  won't 
hurt  y'u.  I  know  w'en  I'm  licked." 
He  left  her  at  the  door  of  her  father's  house; 

91 


y 


1'  . 


.*  i 


).' 


\l   ' 


) 


•  r 


;, 


fl: 


I 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

and  she  watched  him  swing  down  Rector 
Street  to  West,  whistling  bravely  as  he  went ; 
and  she  went  up  stairs,  very  solemn,  and  she 
asked  her  heart  many  times,  that  night, 
whether  she  was  sad  or  happy,  but  her  heart 
was  silent. 

"  Oh,"  she  sobbed  to  her  pillow,  "  why  do  I 
not  know  whom  I  love  ?  Ah,  it  is  so  sad  1" 
Now,  when,  on  the  next  morning,  Salim 
Khouri  the  merchant,  portentously  solemn, 
sat  himself  down  in  his  great  chair,  waiting 
for  his  narghile  to  be  made  ready — for  it  was 
Sunday — and  told  her,  while  she  filled  the 
bowl  and  blew  the  charcoal  into  a  glow  and 
handed  him  the  long  tube,  that  Khalil  Khayat 
had  made  offer  for  her  hand  for  young 
Alois  Awad,  Ameer  of  the  seventh  genera- 
tion, the  Light  of  his  Eyes,  Haleem  knew 
whom  she  loved.  Then,  indeed,  she  knew 
that  she  loved  Jimmy  Brady ;  and  she 
thought  there  was  no  man  to  compare  with 
him  in  strength  and  beauty  and  courage  ;  but 
she  said,  blushing,  that  she  would  have  her 
answer  ready  when  Khalil  Khayat  should  call 
in  the  evening,  and  went  out  with  a  numb 
heart  to  tell  the  beloved  of  her  heart,  that 
indeed,  he  must  love  her   no  more ;  for  she 

92 


:i' 


FOR  THE  HAND  OF  HALEEM 


was  a  dutiful  daughter.   But  why  should  she 
tell  Jimmy  Brady  this  ?  Ah,  for  the  touch  of 
his  hand  again  !  What  was    the  courage  of 
the  new  Antar  ?  She   would   risk   herself  in 
the  depths  of  his  eyes  !  What  would  he  ven- 
ture ?  Her  purpose  weakened  ;  she  hesitated ; 
she  pressed  on.   Ha,  she   thought,   clinching 
her  little  fists,  she  would  dare  him  to  try  to 
carry  her  off!  She  pulled  her  blouse  into  a 
snug  fit  about  her  little  waist,  and  pressed 
the  massive  silver  comb   into  place   in    her 
wilful  hair,    and   touched  the  ribbon  at  her 
throat — pressing  on,  all  the  while,  to  Battery 
Park.  Little  Innocence  !  In  what  peril  then 
was  the  joy  of  Alois  Awad,  the  Ameer  ? 
"  But  my  father  he  say,  *  Eet  ees  the  Country 
of  Liberty,"    she  thought.    "  Eef  I    marry 
queek,  he  say,  *  O,  Leetle  Star,  w'y  you  not 
tell  ol'  father  ?  Leetle  Star — naughty  Leetle 
Star.  You  marry?  Shame — not  tell  ol'  father! 
Then  I  cry — I   mus'  cry,  I  feel  so   bad — an 
he  say,  *  Sh-h,   Leetle    Star  !  You   happy  ? 
An'  I  say,  '  Yes,  I  lofe  heem.'  An'   he   say 
*  Come,  I  hug  you.  He  good  man,'  he  say 
'  I  know  heem.  Come,  I  hug  you.'  An'   he 
hug  me,  an'  he — he — anger  no  more."  She 
paused.  "  I  tell  w'at  other  man  lofe  me  .?  No.; 

93 


§ 


■I 

.1 


r 


THE  SOUL  OF  THK  STREET 

he  weel  keel  heem.  I  tell — no.  Eet  ees  bes' 
— not."  Then  she  determined,  with  a  toss 
of  her  head:  "  1  marry — no —nobody  ! " 
In  the  evening  of  that  day,  Khalil  Khayat 
sat  with  Alois  Awad,  the  Light  of  his  Eyes, 
in  the  back  room  of  the  coffee-house  of 
Nageeb  Eiani,  which,  as  men  know,  is  on 
Washington  Street,  not  far  up  from  Battery 
Place,  and  may  there  be  found  any  day. 
They  were  waiting  for  the  time  to  come 
when  Khalil  Khayat  should  go  to  the  house 
of  Salim  Khouri  the  merchant,  to  hear  the 
answer  of  Haleem,  his  daughter  ;  and  they 
were  smoking,  heavily,  silently,  each  busy 
with  fantastic  dreams.  The  old  man  was 
listening,  in  fancy,  to  the  prattle  of  children, 
feeling  their  soft  hands  in  his  gray  hair,  their 
soft  lips  against  his  cheek — voices  and  hands 
and  lips  not  of  children  of  his  blood,  but  of 
the  blood  of  the  Light  of  his  Eyes  ;  and  his 
face  reflected  his  capering  thoughts.  Looking 
into  the  depths  of  the  smoke  cloud — here, 
ever,  was  the  charm  of  the  narghile — he  saw 
himself  a  shadowy  old  man  in  a  shadowy 
great  chair  set  in  a  shadowv  corner,  telling 
dream  tales,  that  now  trooped  from  the  no- 
where into   misty  view,  to  little  children  of 

94 


fi 


FOR  THK  HAND  OF  HALKFM 

shadowy,  solemn  feature  upon  his  knee. 
Now,  the  dream  chased  the  old,  sad  expecta- 
tion of  lonely  senile  age  out  of  thought,  and 
suflFlised  his  dark,  melancholy  face  with  the 
light  of  sudden  hope;  so  that,  child-like  him- 
self, he  chuckled  his  joy,  when  the  dream 
leaped  out  of  bounds.  But  Alois  Awad 
trembled  in  his  chair,  and  drew  swift  sighs, 
and  sought  distraction  in  the  jumbled  pattern 
of  the  wall-paper  and  the  voices  in  the  outer 
room,  and  consumed  a  hundred  matches  to 
keep  his  cigarettes  alight,  and  was  vacant  and 
flushed  by  turns,  nor  found  relief  in  any- 
thing. Two  dreams  fought  for  place  in  his 
mind;  and  he  would  harbor  neither,  the  one 
for  that  he  would  not  dread  it,  the  other  for 
that  he  dared  not  entertain  it. 

Thy  house  is  to  be  nrme,  as  though  thou 
wert  my  son  ? "  Khalil  Khayat  asked  ten- 
derly. "  Is  it  not  so,  Alois  Awad?  In  our 
love  for  each  other,  was  it  not  so  agreed  ?  " 
"  Ij:  is  even  so,  as  I  have  said  many  times, 
Khalil,  my  friend,"  Alois  answered,  crushing 
his  impatience.  "And  the  chair  by  the  win- 
dow— and  the  books — and — and  all  that  we 
have  dreamed." 
"  Ah  !   It  is  new  happiness  to  hear  the  words 

95 


•  (( 


THE  SOUL  OI^  THE  STREET 


" 


i 


, 


again.  And  thy  children  are  to  be  to  me  as 

though  thou  wert  my  very  son  ?  " 

"  As  I  have  said   many  times,  Khalil  ;  it  is 

even  so." 

"  There  is  a  restful  certainty  in  repetition!  I 

am  to  tell   them  stories  of  the  heroes  of  our 

people.   Is  it  not  so  ?   I    am    to   teach   them 

the    Language    Beautiful.     Have    I    not   so 

spoken  ?  " 

"  How  often,  Khalil !  " 

"  Perchance,"    Khayat    pursued,    in    wistful 

speculation,  "  perchance  there  will  be  a  Poet 

among  them.  Who  knows  ? "  he  continued 

solemnly.  "  It  may  be  that  the  son  of  your 

loins,  the  child  of  my  teaching,   shall  some 

day — some  day " 

"  Ah,  it   is  a  dream,    Khalil,"    Alois  cried, 

sweeping  his  hand  over  his  eyes. 

"  But    the   Language  needs    a  Poet !    The 

Temple  is  crumbling  !  Where " 

"  Dream  no  more,  Khalil  !  " 

Khayat   shrugged  his    shoulders.    "  It   is   a 

large    dream,  Alois,"    he    said  composedly. 

"  But  let  us  delight  ourselves  in  it." 

Alois  looked  up  at  the  dingy   ceiling,   and 

sighed  soulfully.  "It  may  be,"  he  whispered, 

"  that  my  happiness  shall  fail."     Then  he 

96 


n 


FOR  THK  HAND  OF  HALKEM 


clasped  his  hands,  and  raised  them,  and  cried 
passionately:  "  'Will  fortune  ever,  O  daughter 
of  Malik,  ever  bless  me  with  thy  embrace? 
The  old  one  looked  at  the  young  one  quiz- 
zically, saying:  "The  Arabs  say,  '  H?d  the 
bird  been  good  to  eat,  the  pursuit  of  the 
hunter  would  not  have  been  faint-hearted.'  " 
Alois  smiled,  and  Khayat  went  on:  "It  is 
near  time.  I  shall  start  now  for  the  house  of 
Salim  Khouri  for  the  answer — for  the  an- 
swer of  little  Haleem  to  the  Light  of  my 
Lyes. 

Khayat  sat  still  in  his  chair;  for  Jimmy 
Brady  came  swiftly  through  the  outer  room, 
crying,  buoyantly :  "  Hello,  Fiani  !  Lord, 
ain't  it  hot!  Ain't  old  man  Khayat  here  ?  " 
His  heartiness  was  infectious ;  all  the  men 
laughed  sympathetically  as  he  passed  by.  He 
burst  into  the  litde  back  room.  His  chest 
was  swelling  ;  his  head  was  thrown  back  ;  he 
was  drawing  his  breath  as  though  all  air  were 
pure  and  bracing  ;  his  hat  was  on  the  side  of 
his  head — fairly  over  the  ear,  jaunty,  saucy  ; 
his  cigar  was  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth  and 
at  the  political  angle  ;  his  eyes  were  flashing. 
He  slapped  Alois  on  the  back — a  resound- 
thwack,  that  made  the  Syrian  wince. 


mg 


97 


lijj^ 


n 


>  -, 


'I 


THK  SOUL  OF  THK   STREET 

"  Much  'bliged,"  said  Alois  delightedly. 
**  You  welcome.  Sit  down.  You  happy,  eh?" 
Old  Khayat  rose  courteously  and  drew  out 
a  chair.  "  Be  seated,  Meester  Brady,"  he 
said.  "  Toshi,  Toshi  !  "  he  called.  "  One 
cup  coffee — one  more,  for  Meester  Brady. 
How  ees  your  health  to-day,  sair  ^  Eet  ees 
very  warm,  ees  eet  not  ?  "  There  was  a  twin- 
kle in  K  ^yat's  eyes  ;  young  Jimmy  Brady 
was  acceptable  in  his  sight. 
"  Say,  I'm — I'm  married,"  Jimmy  blurted, 
grinning  radiantly.  His  voice  was  shrill  and 
shaking ;  such  was  the  measure  of  his  hap- 
piness. "Hear  me?  I'm  married.  I  got  a  li'l 
wife,  an'  she  loves  me — loves  me,  er  she's  a 
liar.  Ha,  ha  !  "  He  laughed  abruptly,  va- 
cantly ;  then  he  gasped,  happily,  and  con- 
tinued, as  in  a  burst  of  confidence  :  "It's 
this  way.  Mister  Khayat — I  run  away  wit' 
the  girl,  an'  the  old  man  ain't  on  yet.  Now, 
I  ain't  crawlin'  meself;  but  me  nerves  is  all 
gone.  I  want  somebody  't  square  it.  Under- 
stand ?  Somebody  't  square  it — break  it 
easy — let  the  old  man  down  light.  Under- 
stand ?  It's  sudden,  but  it's  all  right;  there 
won't  be  any  tearin'  done.  The  man  I  want 
IS  you.  Understand  ?  He  knows  y'u,  an'  w'at 

98 


i 


FOR  THE  HAND  OF  HALEKM 

y'u  say  goes  wit'  him.  Just  break  it.  Folio' 
me  ?    All   y'u   got    t'    do   is — is — tell  him. 

Now " 

Khayat  was  laughing  ;  and  Alois,  now  pecul- 
iarly responsive  to  the  mood  of  the  young 
lover,  was  smiling.  Such,  then,  was  the  joy 
of  love  !  Ah,  that  he  might  know  it ! 
"  You  have  not  told  me  the  name  of  the 
young  ladee,  "  Khayat  interrupted,  sobering. 
"  Who  ees  the  dear  ladee  ?  Can  eet  be  that 
she  ees  a  Syrian  ?  " 

"  She's  a  Dago,  all  right — the  prettiest  li'l' 
Dago  y'u  ever  see,"  Jimmy  rattled,  with  ris- 
ing emotion.  "  She's  all  right.  Her — her 
heart,  it's  all  right,  too  !  She — she — loves 
me."  Jimmy  stretched  out  his  hands,  and 
lifted  up  his  rapt  face  ;  and  continued,  in- 
spired to  describe  the  graces  of  his  beloved  : 
"  She  loves  me  !  Say,  her  eyes — my  Gawd  ! 
— her  li'l'  hands — her  hair — say,  I'm  foolish 
— touched.  Are  y'u  on?  Soft,  I  am — nutty! 
I  ain't  right  in  me   head  any   more.   It's  her 

eyes — her  li'l,  hands — her " 

"  Ah,"  said  Khayat,  gently,  "  but  you  have 
not  told  me  her  dear  name.   How  can  I  have 

help  you,  eef  I " 

"  Haleem  Khouri's  her  name,"  said  Jimmy ; 

99 


( 


r/ 


■s 


>: 


I! 
|l 


THE  SOUL  OF  THK  STKIJ.T 

"  an'  she's  a  beaut.  Say,   I'm    foolish  !  Her 

eyes  is  brown,  an'  her  hair  is  black " 

The  muscles  of  Khalil  Khayat's  face  stiftened 
in  their  position;  but  the  light  of  interest  in 
his  eyes  expired,  and  it  was  dull  in  them 
thereafter.  His  heart  faltered  —  stopped — 
beat  on  again,  with  slowly  lessening  pain. 
Here  a  muscle  in  his  face  relaxed  ;  there  an- 
other. Muscle  after  muscle  weakened  and 
gave  ;  soon  his  blue,  twitching  face,  still  up- 
turned to  Jimmy  Brady,  wore  a  shallow 
smile,  that  passed,  anon,  into  ghastliness — 
soon  a  dull  melancholy — soon  a  look  of  fixed 
woe  and  weariness.  Then  he  sighed,  and  let 
his  eyes  fall  to  his  coffee  cup,  where  he  kept 
them,  fearing  the  greater  pain  in  a  sight  of 
the  face  of  Alois  Awad.  Alois's  cigarette  had 
fallen  to  the  table-cloth,  and  there  he  let  it 
lie,  while  it  fired  the  fabric,  and  smouldered 
foully.  His  shoulders  had  fallen  in  ;  his  head 
was  swaying  like  the  top  of  a  tall  tree  in  a 
great  wind.  He  kept  his  eyes  up — forced  the 
very  smile  in  them  to  hold  its  place.  Then  his 
head  sunk ;  his  body  tottered ;  he  would 
have  fallen,  strengthless,  over  the  table,  had 
he  not  caught  the  edge  and  stiffened  his 
arms. 

lOO 


I 


/ 


x'^i^^ul^y, 


\ 


FOR  THK   HANI)  OF   I>>4%KKM 

"  Hi  !  '•  Jimmy  exclaimed.  «  Who  h^^y^^Z}!'^'^^-' 
He  could  not  understand  ;  here  was  a  physi- 
cal effect,  hut  who  had  struck,  the  blow  ? 
"  Say,  y'u  look  like  a  game  pug  after  a  right 
hand  jab  on  the  jaw.  Y"u  look  as  if  y'u  was 
jolted  fer  fair.  Wat — w'at's  doin'  ?  " 
"  Agh  !"  said  Alois  faintly.  "1  have  smoke 
— too  much  smoke." 

"  Groggy  and  game  an'  comin*  up  t'  the 
scratch,  eh?"  Jimmy  laughed.  "  Here,  drink 
yer  water."  There  was  silence.  Jimmy 
turned  to  Khalil  Khayat.  "  W'at's  doin',  I'm 

askin'.?    W'at " 

Khayat  held  up  his  lean  hand  imperiously. 
"  Ox-cuse  me,"  he  said,  contorting  his  fea- 
tures into  a  kindly  smile.  "  I  weel  speak 
weeth  Meester  Awad  een  my  own  tongue." 
"  Cert,"  said  Jimmy. 

Khayat  turned  to  Alois.  "  Well  ?  "  he  said, 
simply  ;  but  there  was  a  wondrous  depth  of 
tenderness  in  his  voice. 
"  What  is  my  love  ?  "  answered  Alois  Awad, 
Ameer  of  the  seventh  generation,  in  the 
purest  speech  of  his  people,  and  his  eyes 
were  shining  and  his  voice  was  shrill  and 
sure,  as  of  a  prophet  of  high  calling.  "  Is  it  a 
thirst  that  cries  for  quenching  ?   Rather  is   it 

lOI 


I 


If. 


Il 


1 


Il   It 


i! 


I' 


THE  SOUL  OF  THI-:  STkKl.T 

water  freely  given  to  a  parched  throat.  Is  it 
a  consuming  flame,  to  turn  to  ashes  the  joy 
of  my  beloved  ?  Rather  is  it  a  fire  kincfled 
in  a  wintry  place,  burning  brightly  in  the 
night,  that  she  may  bask  in  its  heat,  and 
dream  of  sunlit  places.  Is  it  the  night,  har- 
boring the  frightful  shapes  of  darkness  ? 
Rather  is  it  the  twilight,  and  the  slumber- 
song  of  the  wilderness.  Is  it  a  tempest,  to 
stir  great  waves  to  engulf  the  ship  of  her  hap- 
piness ?  Rather  is  it  a  favoring  breeze,  to 
speed  her  into  port.  Is  it  a  winged  arrow, 
the  arrow  of  my  bow,  straight-aimed  in  the 
cunning  of  my  eye,  flying  swiftly,  seeking 
out  her  fair  breast  to  tear  it  ?  Oh,  the  cruel 
song  of  the  arrow  ;  and  again,  and  yet  again, 
oh,  the  cruel  song  of  the  arrow  !  Nay ! 
Rather  is  it  a  shield  for  my  beloved — a  shield 
encompassing  her,  a  shield  of  tried  steel — my 
shield,  defending  her  against  the  arrows  of 
sorrow." 

"  The  Light  of  my  Eyes!"  Khalil  Khayat 
murmured  rapturously,  tingling  to  his  fin- 
ger-tips. "  The  Light  of  my  Eyes !  "  He 
looked  long  in  the  young  man's  face  ;  and  he 
pulled  his  gray  mustache  tremulously,  and 
drew  long,  deep  breaths  through  his  expanded 

102 


w 


lOR    1  Hl<.   HANI)  Ol    IIAIJ.I.M 

nostrils,  like  a  man  lifted  out  of  himself  by 
the  courage  of  a  champion.  **  I  know  the 
meaning,  Light  of  my  I'-yes  !  " 
"  Wat's  this  ?  "  Jimmy  demanded,  dazed. 
"  Somebody's  hurt — I — I — do'  know.  Ain't 
somebody  hurt?  " 

"  I  weel  go  weeth  you,"  said  Khayat,  rising 
steadily.  His  dark  face  wr^:  then  emotionless. 
He  looked  absently  for  his  ha« — under  the 
table,  on  the  hooks,  on  the  chairs  ;  and  he 
flushed  when  he  found  it  onhis  head. "Come!" 
he  continued.  "Salim  Khouri,eet  ees  a  frien'. 
My  words  they  have  power  weeth  heem.  He 
have  respect  for  me.  He  weel  forgeeve.  Let 
me  but  say  eet  ees  well,  and  all  weel  be  well. 
She  weep,  have  you  say?  Little  Haleem  weep 
to  go  home!  Let  us  have  hurry.  She  weel  be 
forgeeve,  Wat  I  say,  Khouri  he  weel  do. 
Not  turning  to  look  at  Alois  Awad,  the 
Light  of  his  Kyes,  Khalil  Khayat  went  out. 
His  old  rusty  hat  was  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  pulled  down  to  his  ears.  He  was 
staring  absently  straight  before  him.  Was  it  a 
smile  on  his  face?  Was  it  the  shadow  of  pain? 
Was  it  a  smile  touched  with  regret?  Men  won- 
dered as  he  passed  along  with  Jimmy  Brady; 
and  they  turned  to  look  again;  but  they  could 

103 


I 


1} 


THE  SOUL  OF    THi:   S'lKEET 

not  tell    whether   or    not    it   was  well    with 
Khalil  Khayut  that  day. 


7 


104 


THE    UNDER    SHEPHERD 


'   5'.. I 


? 


Jl;>l 


y',^ 


'•1 


IK!   •J, 


.  ( 


i-, 


ir 


p 


THE    UNDER   SHEPHERD 

AG,  the  lean  Irish  girl 
— she  who  was  two 
years  married  to  Mus- 
tapha  il  Haladad  — 
had  groped  her  way 
up  the  two  rickety 
flights  to  the  little  dis- 
pensary of  the  Ortho- 
dox Church  of  the 
Syrians,  and  had  gasped  the  fear  that  her 
baby  was  dying ;  and  the  Doctor — Salem 
Effendi,  of  the  Facult'e  de  Medecine  de  Con- 
stantinople— had  pulled  on  his  rusty  high  hat 
and  trotted  importantly  out  on  her  heels, 
patting  her  on  the  back,  and  crooning  "La-a, 
la-a,  la-a,  my  de-ear !  We  will  not  thees  time 
have  die —  not  the  leetle  one  !  Sh— h-h  ! 
La-a,  la-a,  ia-a !  " 

An  hour  before,  the  young  Father  Nikola, 
a  priest  of  the  Orthodox  Church,  and  Under 
Shepherd  of  the  Sheep  of  Washington  Street 
— that  swarthy,  sloe-eyed,  simple  people  of 
incongruous  dwelling  places  —  the  young 
Father,  whose  gentle  tyranny  endures  to  this 
day  in  the  good  it  begot,  had  gone  up  from 
the  church  on  the  floor  below  to  pass  the 
time  with  the  Doctor  against  the  coming  of 

107 


i^ 


K 


I 


f 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 


It' 
1,1, 


i' 


il 


It'i  I 


h 


the  wasted  body  of  Nageeh  the  Intelligent, 
Abo-Samara's  little  son,  who  had  died  of 
lung  trouble,  even  as  his  father  had  ;  for 
Nageeb  was  to  be  buried  that  day. 
With  the  going  of  the  Doctor  the  Father 
was  left  alone  to  the  lugubrious  companion- 
ship of  the  operating  chair  and  a  thousand 
little  bottles  of  mysterious,  pungent  contents, 
and  of  a  staring  portrait  of  the  Czar  and  the 
half  of  a  dusty,  disintegrating  skeleton.  The 
chair  was  tilted  to  an  awkward  angle  where 
the  floor,  partaking  of  the  general  dilapida- 
tion, sagged  listlessly ;  the  bottles  were 
arrayed  in  thin,  disordered  rows,  like  a  lack- 
adaisical battalion ;  and  the  eyes  of  the  Czar 
searched  hypnotically,  in  every  direction, 
even,  as  Abotanios,  the  janitor,  has  said,  "  as 
the  very  eyes  of  God."  Over  the  garish, 
shiftless  whole  a  lonesome  silence  brooded 
— a  silence  such  as  when  a  creaking  board 
suggests  the  footfall  of  a  ghost. 
The  last,  full-drawn  whiff  of  the  Doctor's 
cigarette  was  caught  by  the  swift  little 
draughts  that  entered  viciously  through 
many  a  crevice  in  that  old,  old  building. 
The  Father  absently  watched  the  fragrant 
cloud  of  smoke  swirl  and  disperse  ;  fancying 

io8 


6' 

'I  I 


THE    UNDER    SHEPHERD 

all  the  while  that  he  could  hear  a  multitude 
of  women  crvir^  from  all  about,  "  Doctor, 
doc^^or,  come  quick!  I — I — think  me  baby's 
dyin'.  Oh,  fer  Gawd's  sake,  doctor,  come — 
come  quick !  "  He  turned  to  the  litter  of 
French  and  Arabic  medical  books  on  the 
Doctor's  table  for  pre-occupation  ;  but,  in  a 
moment,  he  tossed  them  aside  as  barren  of 
distraction,  adding  impatient  thump  and 
rustle  to  the  scampering  and  the  spitting  of 
the  excitable  black  cat  in  the  society  room 
beyond,  and  to  the  garrulous  grumbling  in 
the  church  below,  where  old  Abotanios  was 
making  ready  for  the  requiem  for  the  soul  of 
Abo-Samara's  little  son. 
Abotanios  stopped  his  sweeping  and  his 
grumbling,  and  tiptoed,  heavily,  to  the  foot 
ot  the  stair,  and  stood,  listening. 
"  Father,"  he  shouted,  screwing  his  gray  face 
into  a  scowl,  "  what's  all  this  trouble  for  a 
beggar,  the  brat  of  a  beggar  ?  A  fine  mass  for 
the  son  of  Abo-Samara !  As  well  clothe  a 
pauper  in  fine  raiment  and  send  him  to  a 
king's  banquet !  Agh  !  it  is  a  lie  before  the 
Keeper  of  the  Gate." 

"  Abotanios,"  the  Father  called  back,  smil- 
ing, "who  was  it  beat  the  Irish  boy  for  hit- 

109 


( 


,Jt 


: 


■  < 

r 


'i     ! 


^1.1 


/' 


^' 


: 


! 


ft. 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE    STREET 

ting  you  with  the  hard  snow  ;  but  last  winter, 

Abotanios — who  was  that  little  one?" 

"  The  Irish — tamn,  tamn,  tanin !  "  Abotanios 

burst  out.     "  He  had  the  heart  of  a  fighter, 

that  little    Nageeb,"  he   continued,  with   an 

accent   of  gentleness,   long  in   disuse.     He 

added,  ungraciously,  in   the   lower  voice  of 

second  thought :  "  But  it  is  a  great  trouble 

for  nothing ;  and  I  am  an  old  man — an  old, 

old  man  without  any  sons." 

The    Father   knew  that    the    old   man   was 

leaning  on  his  broom  and  wagging  his  head 

forlornly. 

"  It  may   be,"  called   the    Father,  "  that   I 

shall    have    something    for   you — after    the 

service." 

"  Huh  !  "  Abotanios  exclaimed  ;  and  he  went 

back  to  his  work  in  the  cheerless  church,  and 

grumbled  no  more. 

The  Father  was  suddenly  possessed  by  a  fit 

of  impatience.     He  looked  at  his  watch,  and 

caught  his  breath  as  he  snapped  it  shut,  for 

they  were  late  with  the  little  coffin — late  on 

this    day   of  untimely   bitterness,  when   the 

children  of  other  improvident  women  were 

shivering  in  many  a  loose  roof  room  and 

cellar  through  which   the  raw  wind  coursed, 

no 


M 


^1  f\  I 


I  |i 


THE    UNDER   SHEPHERD 

triumphant,  mocking.  He  thought  impetu- 
ously, in  his  way  :  She  was  wailing  over  the 
brat ;  clinging  to  the  pretty  clay,  which,  as 
men  knew,  she  had  never  prized  so  highly. 
Had  she  the  shock  of  bothersome  black  hair 

untangled  for 

"  There    won't    be    many    at    the    service," 
Abotanios  whined  up  the  stair. 
"  There  will   be   only  a  woman,"   was   the 
sharp  reply ;    and    the    sweeping   was  soon 
resumed. 

Thus  the  sight  of  the  wailing  woman  was 
tumbled  into  a  formless  heap.  The  Father 
turned  to  his  pocket  comb  and  mirror  for 
distraction.  He  hummed  lightly  as  he  sought 
for  a  good  place  to  set  the  mirror,  to  make 
the  most  of  the  wintry  light — trying  it  here, 
trying  it  there.  He  dressed  and  fondled  his 
long  black  hair  until  it  fell  smoothly  back 
from  his  fine,  placid  forehead  to  his  shoulders, 
until  there  was  no  tangle  in  the  curling  end  ; 
and  when  he  had  bestowed  every  hair  of  his 
thin  beard  in  its  place,  he  admired  himself 
naively,  and  smiled,  turning  his  head  from 
side  to  side — trying  this  expression,  trying 
that,  pride,  compassion,  pleading  and  all ; 
squinting    to    catch    the    reflection.      The 

III 


ci 


I  "1 


'h\ 


^  S) 


\V 


\ 


iFil 


f 

> 

1 

'It 

I  >  I 


li 


■  I 


ft 


iv 


THE  SOUL   OF   THK    STRI.I.T 

twinkle  came  back  to  his  eye;  he  sang  a 
snatch  of  a  love  song.  Then  he  pulled  the 
dusty  muslin  curtains  aside  and  looked  out 
at  the  brick  wall  and  drifting  snow  and 
Halloran's  red  shirt  swinging  stiffly  from  a 
high  line.  It  was  such  a  day  as  when  there 
is  least  pain  in  the  sight  of  a  white  hearse  in 
an  impoverished  neighborhood — a  raw  day, 
following  kindly  weather,  cruel  with  menace, 
as  though  winter,  newly  free,  tried  his 
strength  in  sinister  sport.  The  Father  shiv- 
ered and  drew  the  skirt  of  his  cassock  tight 
about  his  legs  ;  thinking  that  Nageeb  the 
Intelligent,  Abo-Samara's  little  son,  was  a 
lucky  little  Syrian  to  have  been  killed  by  the 
climate  so  soon  .  .  .  and  continued  in 
melancholy  meditation,  into  which  there 
flashed,  intermittently,  the  established  prom- 
ise of  surcease  of  sorrow  for  his  people — 
until  he  was  interrupted  by  a  voice,  saying 
softly : 

"  May  the  day  be  long  in  happiness  for  you, 
O  Father!" 

The  wheezy  complainings  of  the  stair  had 
fallen  on  the  ears  of  the  dreamer  unheard ; 
there  had  been  no  sound  of  shambling  foot- 
steps in  the  hall,  no  timid  tapping  at  the 

112 


■'i  ,  I'; 


V 


THE    UNDER    SHEPHERD 

door — none  of  the  familiar  warnings,  slow 
and  stealthful,  of  one  coming  to  the  dis- 
pensary ;  whereabouts,  as  in  all  the  Qiiarter, 
the  atmosphere  is  thick  with  suspicion  and 
envy,  and  eavesdroppers  lurk  of  nature  in 
dusky  corners.  The  leather  rose  in  fright, 
catching  his  breath,  and  turned  swiftly  to  the 
door,  to  find,  standing  there,  a  hesitant, 
shamefaced  woman  of  the  lower  class,  round 
and  squat,  with  a  spreading  pink  shawl  over 
her  head,  caught  together  at  the  nostrils,  so 
that  there  were  disclosed  of  her  features  but 
her  long-lashed,  dull  brown  eyes,  a  patch  of 
forehead  and  a  ragged  fringe  of  blue-black 
hair.  She  had  one  thick,  bangled  hana 
pressed  against  her  heart,  and  she  was  pant- 
ing hard,  as  though  from  exhaustion — it  may 
be  through  fear  of  shame ;  for  this  was  the 
young  wife  of  Sadahala  the  Merchant,  who 
was  deep  in  love  with  Atta  the  Wrestler, and 
she  had  wondered  concerning  her  reputation 
through  the  solemn  hours  of  many  a  night, 
flushing  hope,  flushing  fear,  crooning  always 
to  her  heart  to  soothe  it:  "  Oh,  heart,  poor 
thing,  will  you  please  not  love  him  any 
more  !  Sh-h-h  !  The  gossips  have  not  yet 
found  you  out.     Oh,  poor  heart,  won't  you 

"3 


Vi 


r 


IM 


V 


1' 

f 

1 K 1 

:'  1  ■ 

V  !:■ 

:;  !, 

■i 

t-'      ft 

'1 

■    '  ^!' 

[I'Mi 

k 

1 . 

■ 

THi:  SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 

please  let  the  love  go  ?  Sometime  It  will  hurt 
you  no  more.  Little  heart,  dear  little  one, 
forget  the  beauty  of  his  strength — '  so 
crooning  to  it,  pitying  it,  but  strong  against 
it,  even  as  her  people  are  strong. 
The  Father  drew  himself  to  his  full  height 
and  threw  back  his  head ;  then  he  looked 
upon  her  fixedly,  and  stepped  back,  drawing 
the  skirt  of  his  cassock  about  him. 
''  Ah,"  he  said,  with  a  glance  askance  and  a 
disgustful  twitch  of  the  lips,  as  one  who 
passes,  shrinking,  some  contamination,  "  it 
is  the  wife  of  Sadahala  !  "  There  was  the 
quiver  of  scorn  in  the  low,  soft-spoken 
words ;  under  their  icy  deliberation  the 
woman  cowered  and  shivered — like  a  man, 
solitary  in  some  black,  waste  place,  struck  by 
a  blast  of  sleet. 

Now,  the  scorn  and  the  curl  of  the  lip  had 
been  planned ;  there  had  been  suspicion  in 
the  Father's  mind.  The  woman  fell  into 
the  trap. 

"  The  people  lie,"  she  faltered,  weakly  de- 
fiant.    "It's  as   easy  to  lie  as  to  breathe." 
Then  she  sobbed,  like  a  child  in  a  passion 
denial,  her  voice  r:'  ' 


f 


^g- 


IS 


no  shame — I   have  been  true  to  my  hus- 

114 


THK    UNDER   SHEPHERD 

band  !  "  There  was  a  plaintive  note  of  pro- 
test in  her  voice,  as  she  continued,  tremu- 
lously :  "  Father,  don't  you  believe  what 
they  say.  It  is  lies — all  great,  big  black  lies. 
Father,  give  me  your  hand  to  kiss." 
The  Father  looked  out  of  the  window,  inex- 
orably ;  and  the  woman,  suddenly  listless 
through  despair,  let  her  shawl  sink  to  her 
shoulders  and  swung  across  the  little  room 
— her  heavy  under  lip  hanging,  her  eyes 
showing  cognizance  of  nothing  near — and  sat 
down.  She  stared  at  the  priest's  back,  bit- 
terly hopeless ;  then  her  head  sunk  over  her 
knees,  she  put  her  hands  to  her  face,  and 
swayed  from  side  to  side,  sobbing  dryly. 
"  Tell  me,  won't  you  please.  Father,"  she 
plainted  —  she  had  risen  and  touched  him 
timidly  on  the  shoulder,  and  had  stepped 
back  and  hung  her  head,  conscious  that  she 
had  presumed  too  far — "  what  do  the  people 
say  about  the  wife  of  Sadahala  ?  Aie  1  Who 
is  weaker  than  I  ?  Yet  1  have  withstood  him 
He  says  he  knows  I  love  him 
He  shows  me  his  strength,  and  it 
is  very  great.  .  .  He  won't  go  away.  .  ." 
"  O-ho !  "  the  Father  exclaimed,  triumph- 
antly.    "  Then  it  is  so.     You  love  him." 


i 


\. 


T 


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A 


,.  'Mi! 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

"  What  do  the  people " 

"They  call  you  by  a  good  name,"  the  Father 
said.  "Their  eyes  are  not  so  sharp  as  mine." 
He  added  significaiuly  :  "/  have  seen  what  1 
have  seen."  He  wanted  to  make  a  mystery 
of  his  cunning ;  in  point  of  fact,  he  had 
chanced  on  a  meeting — but  three  words,  a 
glance  and  a  protest — in  Battery  Park,  and 
had  been  quick  to  suspect.  "  As  for  your 
husband,  did  he  not  say  to  me  yesterday,  *  I 
am  not  sorry  that  1  took  the  beggar  to  wife. 
She  is  as  sunshine  to  my  dwelling  place.'  " 
"  God  is  loving  and  merciful,"  she  said, 
softly ;  "  and  you  are  a  sly  one,  O  Feather ! 
Now  I  have  come  to  you — how  is  it  written  ? 
— as  to  the  shadov  of  a  great  rock.  You 
won't  kill  the  man.  Dare  a  priest  shed 
blood?  Nobody  will  kill  him,  then.  They 
shan't  kill  him,"  she  burst  out  vehemently. 
Then  suddenly  quiet :  "  I  am  going  to  be 
true  to  my  husband,  who  says  " — she,  too, 
looked  out  of  the  window,  seeing  nothing  of 
the  brick  wall  and  Halloran's  red  shirt,  but 
through  and  beyond,  even  to  that  distance 
where  strange  tableaux  take  changing  shape 
in  the  gray  mists ;  as  it  is  written,  what  is  in 
the  heart  of  a  woman  that  will  she  dream — 

ii6 


T 


THE   UNDKR   SHEPHERD 

"  true  to  my  husband,  who  says  that  1  am 
as  sunshine  to  his  dwelling  place."  She 
stared  on,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap. 
The  Father  could  hardly  contain  himself  to 
hear  the  end  of  this.  He  advanced  impet- 
uously, his  severity  melting,  vanishing,  and 
let  the  wife  of  Sadahala  kiss  his  hand — a  fine, 
slim,  brown  hand,  which  he  was  careful  to 
rub  at  once,  but  abstractedly,  with  a  little 
handkerchief;  for  the  kisses  of  the  woman 
were  fervent,  clinging,  hot  out  of  the  fullness 
of  a  new  hope.  Then  he  paced  the  room,  all 
things  trembling  to  his  tread  ;  and  he  cried, 
in  the  purer  Arabic  of  passion  : 
"  Ho  !  Now  shall  this  fleshly  fellow  be  over- 
whelmed. Bone  and  muscle  and  the  fury  of 
strength  totter  and  fail  before  the  invisible 
might  of  the  authority  of  the  Church  of  the 
All-Powerful ;  yea,  even  as  the  tree  of  a  hun- 
dred years,  a  tree  thick  and  of  stubborn 
growth,  is  uprooted  and  cast  lengthwise  by 
the  wind  which  no  man  sees.  I,  Nikola 
Diebs,  priest  of  the  Orthodox  Church,  I — I 
am  the  instrument  of  God  to  confuse  him. 
And  shall  he  know  by  whom  confusion 
comes  ?  Ho  !  "  The  Father's  eyes  were  flash- 
ing, and  his  lips  had  the  curl  of  sure  defi- 

117 


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U 


i 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 


I' ' 


; 


(I 


t    0 


\    f   :il 


I 


■■'r 


^ 


)    \ 


ance ;  his  voice  was  raised  to  the  pitch  and 
sing-song  of  high  zeal ;  now  and  again  he 
flung  his  arms  out.  "  The  woman  has  come 
to  me.  Ho  !  even  as  to  the  shadow  of  a  great 
rock.  By  the  flame  of  noon,  and  by  the 
thirsty  heat ;  and  by  the  evening  wind,  and 
by  the  dusk  as  it  creeps  out  of  the  east,  and 
by  the  dew  that  cools  the  weary  feet,  she 
shall  rest  from  the  sun ;  and  its  rays  shall  no 
more  scorch  her."  Now  the  Father  swiftly 
planned.  .  .  .  He  was  incoherent;  then 
silent  .  .  .  He  had  scented  a  lurking 
wolf;  he  was  in  a  flame  of  passion  against  it. 
He  was  to  thrust — to  thrust  for  heart's 
blood,  that  one  of  the  fold  might  be  kept 
safe. 

The  wife  of  Sadahala  sat  in  her  chair,  moan- 
ing, muttering;  for  now  she  knew  that  she 
was  to  be  separated  forever  from  her  heart's 
desire — a  deliverance  prayed  for;  but,  in  its 
coming,  resistless,  terrible,  merciless  as  a 
falling  rock.  Her  broken  word:?  were  spoken 
to  her  heart ;  and  thev  were  such  as  these — 
reiterated,  as  with  swift,  persistent  hands 
men  put  forth  their  strength  to  stem  a  rising 
torrent:  "Oh,  heart,  oh,  heart — hush  !  Let 
him  go — let  him  go.     Oh,  heart,  he  will  go 

ii8 


THE    UNDER    SHEPHERD 

away.  Hush  !  The  love  is  a  deadly  sin.  Poor 
heart,  it  is  not  good  that  you  should  see  him 
again.  Don't  cry  so  hard.  The  pain  will  go 
away,  poor  heart — poor  little  heart.  Hush  !  " 
.  Now  she  writhed  where  she  sat;  now 
her  body  swayed  ;  now  her  head  sunk  to  her 
very  knees  ;  now  she  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands;  now  she  pressed  her  full,  heaving 
bosom,  as  though  to  crush  it  into  quiet  .  .  . 
and  she  wondered,  dully,  how  the  Father 
would  pluck  out  her  offending  eye,  and  con- 
cerning the  pain  of  the  last  wrench ;  and 
there  cr.me,  through  all,  some  vague  fear  ot 
the  wrath  of  her  lover,  touched  with  very  ex- 
ultation in  his  strength  for  wrath ;  and  at 
such  times  she  cried  to  herself  most  vehe- 
mently :  "  Oh,  heart,  do  not  love  him  any 
more  —  leave  me  alone,  heart — let  me  be 
true  !  " 

"  Can   this  Atta  read  ?  "   the   Father  asked, 
sharply,  pausing  in  his  walk. 
"  If  the  words  be  such  as  children  use,"  the 
wife   of  Sadahala  answered  in  a   slow,  quiet 
voice. 

"  Sit  at  the  table  and  set  down  the  words  of 
my  mouth."  The  woman  glided  over  and 
awkwardly  made  ready.     The  Father  paced 

119 


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i 


Pi 


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"; 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

the  floor  again,  dictating.  "  To  Yusef  Atta, 
the  Wrestler — rather,  whom  men  call  the 
Wrestler — let  it  be  written  so.  To  Yusef 
Atta,  whom  men  call  the  Wrestler,  from  the 
wife  of  Salim  Sadahala,  a  maid-servant  of 
God,  sent  by  the  hand  of  One  Trustworthy." 
The  woman  wrote  the  words;  the  pen  was 
slow  and  halting,  for  she  was  ignorant.  The 
Father  continued:  "  Now  it  is  commanded 
that  an  end  shall  come  to  the  sinful  persecu- 
tion— that  an  end  shall  come  forthwith  to 

the 

'*  It  is   too   long  a  word  —  forthwith,"  the 

woman  faltered,  faintly.     "He  won't  know 

the  meaning." 

"Ho!   Is  it  so?" 

"  And  what  good  is  the  word  ?    Let  us  leave 

it  out  of  the  letter." 

**  Ah,"  said   the   Father,  meditatively,  "  it  is 

so.     He  would   not  understand.      Let  *  at 

once  '  be   substituted  for  *  forthwith  ' ;  that 

the  letter  may  read  thus:  *  That  an  end  must 

at  once  come.'  " 

The  woman's  face  quivered ;   but  she  bent 

resolutely  over  the  page. 

The   Father  went  to  the  door  and    called 

down  the  stair: 

1 20 


!      i  ■  I 


iii ' 

! 


.!  ,' 


If   i 


THE    UNDER   SHEPHERD 

"  Abotanios  !  Abotanios  !  " 
The  wife  of  Sadahala  li     the  pen  fall  with  a 
clatter,  and  she  gasped  and  turned. 
"Abotanios! "  The  Father  strode  into  the  hall, 
and  shouted  sharply:  "Abotanios  !  Come  !  " 
The  woman  darted  to  the  priest ;  livid,  pant- 
ing; she  caught   his  arm  and  clung  to  it,  as 
though,  in   a  frenzy,   to   restrain   him   from 
some  blind  misstep  in  a  place  where  death 
lurked  all  about  his  careless  feet. 
"  Would  you  send  this  letter  by  your  own 
servant !  "  she  cried,  the  throb  of  fright,  the 
ring  of  warning  in  her  shrill,  straine       oice. 
"  What's    this ! "    he    exclaimed,    trymg    to 
shake  her  off. 
"  Would  you  let  this  devil  know  who  it  was 

commanded  me  not  to  love,  would " 

"  Stop  !  I  will  let  this  wolf  know  there  is  a 
shepherd  awake  at  the  gate  of  the  fold." 
The  Father  thrust  her  from  him,  impatient 
with  her  violence ;  he  strode  to  the  edge  of 
the  stair,  and  shouted  angrily  :  "  Abotanios  ! 
Open  your  old  ears  !  "  He  was  fairly  past 
patience. 

"  Now,  by  the  triple  Golden  Throne,"  the 
woman  screamed,  waving  her  arms,  "  this 
Atta  shall  not  feel  your  hand  in  this  thing; 

121 


■fi 


ii 


!-! 


h 


-      I 


\ 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

for  a  knlte-thrust  in  the  dark  is  his  way,  and 
a  stroke,  sure  and  deep,  would  be  his 
answer."  Her  voice  broke  ;  she  crossed  her 
arms  against  her  bosom,  and  pleaded,  chok- 
ing, her  cry  but  topping  the  sound  of  the 
risen  wind  as  it  whistled  through  the  court, 
and  bullied  the  red  shirt  on  the  high  line  and 
flung  the  snow  against  the  window  panes : 
"  O  Father,  jealous  as  the  very  Christ  for 
the  righteousness  of  His  servants  and  like 
unto  Him  in  the  courage  of  compassion,  send 
the  letter  by  another  way.  Is  not  the  man 
a  great  man,  and  is  there  any  reason  in  him, 
or  any  check  upon  his  passion  ?  .  .  . 
For,  lo !  I  have  touched  my  fingers  to  the 
muscles  of  his  arms,  and  his  neck,  and  his 
breast,  to  learn  if  his  boast  were  true,  even 
as  he  challenged  ;  and  his  strength  is  very 
great.  And  he  has  held  me  in  his  arms  like 
a  yearling  child — shame  overwhelms  me  ! — 
and  my  fat  is  as  a  feather  to  his  might.  .  .  . 
Now,  his  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  seven 
men,  and  four  fleecemn  has  he  vanquished 
in  fight ;  and  six  men  has  he  killed  in  his 
time,  as  he  says,  and  three  have  rotted  in  the 
tomb  for  that  they  stood  in  the  way  of  his 
desire.   Now " 


122 


)kMt.^S^ 


THE    UNDER   SHEPHERD 

Old  Abotanios  tottered  in,  out  of  breath, 
wheezing,  scolding.  "  What  is  this  uproar?" 
he  gasped ;  and  he  stamped  his  foot  and 
scowled.  "Shame  to  the  Priest  of  the  Holy 
Church !  Am  I  asleep  ?  Am  I  deaf?  Am  I 
blind?  Am  I  drunk?  Am  I  dead?  Is  the 
name  of  Abotanios  to  be  screeched  as  men 
cry,  *Fire  ,'  fire  !  fire  ! '  ?  The  Arabs  say  :  A 
man  is  a  dog  who  is — called — to  heel  like  a 

-dog — •; 

The  Father's  flaring  eyes  brought  Abotanios 
to  a  stutter,  to  a  halt,  to  a  full  stop. 

"  Woman "  the  priest  began,  waving  his 

hand  toward  the  table. 

There  was  the  clatter  of  rough  footfalls  on 
the  lower  stair ;  soon,  on  the  first  landing,  the 
thud  of  a  burden  let  down  heavily. 
"  Hi,  up  there  !  "  A  hoarse  voice,  in  Eng- 
lish, came  out  of  the  silence  below.  "  Were 
d'ye  want  this  party  t'  go  ?  We  ain't  got  no 
time  t'  lose.  It'll  be  dark  w'en  we  reach  the 
grave." 

The  Father  went  out  to  answer.  "  Poot  eet 
een  the  church,"  he  cried.  "  Eet  have  go 
there.  A'right.  Much  'bliged.  I  come  queek. 
You  are  welcome.  Much  'bliged."  He 
stepped  back   into  the  dispensary.    "  Abo- 

123 


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THE  SOUL  OF  THE    STREET 

tanios,"  he  commanded,  speaking  quickly, 
"  seek  you  out  Yusef  Atta,  who  calls  himself 
a  wrestler.  Say  to  him  these  words  of  mine, 
naming  my  name :  There  are  six  kinds  of 
suicide ;  and  fire  and  frost  are  the  portion  of 
the  suicide.  The  first  is  by  water,  the  second 
is  by  poison,  the  third  is  by  the  rope,  the 
fourth  is  by  the  pistol,  the  fifth  is  by  the 
knife,  and  the  sixth  is  by  loving  the  wife  of 
a  strong  man." 

"  There  are   seven,"   Abotanios    burst  out. 
"  And  the  seventh  is  by  tempting  the  devil !" 
"  Abotanios  !  "  This  was  solemnly  said. 
"  Give  me  a  sharp  knife  to  take  with  the 
message ! " 

"  Go  !  "  This  v/as  imperiously  exclaimed. 
Abotanios  slunk  out,  turning  at  the  door, 
like  a  whipped  dog,  to  snarl. 
The  Father  thanked  God  perfunctorily,  as- 
cribing all  glory  to  Him  for  a  blow  well 
struck  ;  muttering  in  haste  and  agitation,  to 
the  confusion  of  his  prayer  with  his  inmost 
thought.  "  Now,  O  God,  thanks  be  to  Thee 
for — ah  !  my  hair  is  in  a  tangle — this  good 
work.  The  glory — there  is  dust  on  my  skirt ! 
— is  Thine.  There  is  no  righteousness  in  Thy 
servant ;  nor  is  there — there  is  a  volcano  in 


V 


THE    UNDER   SHEPHERD 

my  head! — any  strength  but  from  Thee. 
Lend  Thy  countenance  to — oh,  where  is  my 
comb  ?  Stop  your  noise,  woman.  Who  shall 
strike  a  priest  of  God.''  Here  is  the  service 
waiting.  I  must  go  now  ..." 
When  he  had  scrupulously  rearranged  his 
tousled  hair  he  descended  to  the  church,  and 
vested  himself;  ignoring  the  dumb,  staring 
woman,  who  with  his  going,  threw  herself 
prone  on  the  floor  with  dull  horror,  to  await 
the  event.  The  door  in  the  twisted  iron 
screen  that  divided  the  low,  shadowy  church 
room  from  the  first  landing,  above  the 
strength  of  any  man,  clanked  shut  after  him  ; 
and  it  chanced  to  lock  by  the  spring  just  as 
the  street  door  below  was  blown  to  after  the 
last  of  the  undertaker's  men.  The  mother  of 
Nageeb  the  Intelligent  had  come  alone  (but 
I  cannot  bring  myself  to  tell  you  why,  such 
is  my  pity  for  her).  She  sat  wailing  in  the 
first  row  of  crazy  wooden  chairs  ;  nor  did  her 
lamentations  subside  into  sobs  and  snufiiing 
until  the  Father,  overswept  by  a  gentle  im- 
pulse— recent  wrath  and  threat  sunk  out  of 
thought  in  a  well  of  nearer  pity — had  whis- 
pered a  soft  word  in  her  ear  and  laid  his  hand 
tenderly  upon  her  head. 

125 


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In 


ii  i  ' 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE    STREET 

Elsewhere  in  the  gloomy  old  building  there 
was  no  life;  save  in  the  dispensary,  where  the 
black  cat,  stretched  out,  lay  snoozing  beside 
the  oil  stove,  and  the  wife  of  Sadahala  lis- 
tened to  the  beating  of  her  own  heart. 
There  was  silence  soon — numb,  cold,  dreary. 
The  Father,  in  all  his  rich  robes  of  office, 
standing  in  his  place  at  the  altar  with  the 
little  book  open  at  the  thumb-soiled  first 
page  of  the  funeral  service,  waited  for  the 
return  of  Abotanios,  the  While  staring  vacant- 
ly at  cross  and  candle  and  pictured  saint  and 
cobweb  and  strange  shadow  and  dark  recess, 
not  knowing  that  the  old  man  had  forgotten 
his  duty  to  the  service  in  the  gossip  of  the 
coffee  table.  Then,  at  last,  he  proceeded 
alone,  making  a  shift  with  half  the  candles 
and  no  deacon;  for  it  was  growing  late.  He 
was  not  unused  to  the  necessity  ;  but  this 
time  he  swung  his  censer  with  a  deeper  sigh. 

•  •••••• 

Atta  the  Wrestler  had  eaten  his  three  pounds 
of  flesh  and  drunk  his  quart  of  whiskey.  He 
was  in  a  playful,  cruel  humor,  on  the  verge 
of  a  certain  sleepy  petulance,  which,  coming 
upon  him,  invariably  lost  him  his  company. 
He  was  sprawling  in  a  great  chair  near  the 

126 


THE    UNDER   SHEPHERD 

coffee  house  stove  ;  this  was  the  only  chair 
into  which  he  could  fit  his  great  body,  and, 
now,  even  it  creaked  beneath  his  weight. 
His  tarboosh  was  awry  on  the  back  of  his 
head;  it  was  hanging  on  his  thick,  wiry  curls 
as  from  several  pegs.  His  coat  was  loose, 
disclosing  the  hilt  of  a  knife  in  the  folds  of 
his  red  sash  ;  his  gaudy  silken  shirt  was  un- 
buttoned at  the  throat,  exposing  a  muscular, 
hairy  throat  and  breast.  Ele  was  teasing  the 
cat  in  an  indolent  fashion,  as  though  not 
quite  sure  that  its  angry  resistance  was  worth 
the  trouble  to  see.  The  sport  flushed  his 
flabby  face,  and  gave  a  sinister  glint  to  his 
eyes.  Just  as  Abotanios  stumbled  in  out  of 
the  storm  the  cat  was  sent  flying  over  the 
oilcloth  by  a  blow  of  the  wrestler's  hand, 
into  which  it  had  dug  its  nails. 
"Js  it  you  at  last,  Yusef  Atta?"  Abotanios 
cried,  scowling.  "  What  is  all  this  trouble  you 
are  making  for  me  ?     Why  can't  you  leave 

the  woman  to " 

"  Abotanios,"  Atta  interrupted,  "  shut  your 
mouth ! " 

"  I  will  not  shut  my  mouth,"  Abotanios 
scolded,  stamping  his  foot.  "  I  have  some- 
thing  to    say  to    you    from   Father  Nikola 

127 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE    STREET 


|(  '   I 


;'  i 


^  !( 


I'l   ?}  t 


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'  «*  If. 


h 


Diebs.  These  are  the  words  I  am  com- 
manded to  say  :  Six  are  the  ways  in  which  a 
worthless  fellow  can  rid  good  people  of  his 
company.  One  is  by  the  rope,  which,  at 
best,  is  doubtful ;  the  next  is  by  poison, 
which  is  expensive  and  likely  to  get  the  poor 
druggist  in  trouble ;  the  third  is  by  the 
knife,  which  is  painful ;  the  fourth  is  by  the 
pistol,  which  is  both  noisy  and  nasty;  the 
fifth  is  by  drowning,  which  is  cheap  and  now 
highly  recommended ;  and  the  sixth  is   by 

loving  the  wife  of  a  strong  man,  which  is 

>>  * 

sure. 

"  Is   there  any   other  word,  O  Abotanios  ?" 

Atta  whispered,  gripping   the  arms   of  the 

chair. 

"  There   is   no   other  word   save  mine,  that 

drowning  is  a  pleasant  death,  as  I  have  been 

told,  and  saves  the  cost  of  a  funeral." 

"And  Nikola  Diebs  said  the  words?" 

"  As  I  have  spoken,  so  he  spoke." 

Atta  had  grown  pale.     He   trembled,  as  of 

passion.     Now  he  brushed  his  hand  over  his 

eyes ;  then  snapped  his  teeth,  like  a  dog  in  a 

fit.     Suddenly  he  leaped  from  his  chair  and 

ran  out,  feeling  for  something  in  his  sash  as 

he  went. 

128 


THE    UNDER   SHEPHERD 

Blessed  be  God ! 
God  is  Holy.  God  is  Holy  ! 
The  response  to  the  people  was  in  the  lone, 
quavering  voice  of  the  mother  of  little  Na- 
geeb.  It  struggled  from  where,  bowed  and 
shivering,  she  sat  against  the  wall,  her  bor- 
rowed black  dress  and  veil  hiding  her  in  the 
shadow ;  and  it  faded  away  at  the  foot  of  the 
stair,  failing  strength  to  rise  to  the  room 
where  the  other  woman  waited.  Jt  was  thin, 
nasal,  broken,  with  no  ring  of  zeal,  incon- 
gruous with  the  spirit  of  the  words  ;  a  wail, 
drawn  and  mournful  as  the  howl  of  a  lost 
dog.  The  voice  of  the  Father,  pitched  high, 
rang  sure  and  sweet,  sounding  clear  above 
the  swish  and  shriek  of  the  wind  that  swept, 
eddying,  over  the  floor  and  up  the  stair,  and 
exhausted  itself  in  the  society  room  ;  above 
the  clatter  of  the  rickety  windows,  and  the 
creaking  signboard  swinging  from  the  sill  ; 
drowning  the  street  noises  and  the  hoarse 
cries  of  Bill  Rattigan,  the  truck  driver,  who 
had  run  foul  of  the  hearse  and  was  cursing 
his  weary  horses.  The  vibrant  tenderness 
of  the  Father's  voice  mellowed  the  frigid, 
clammy  loneliness  of  the  room  into  encom- 
passing condolence,  as  a  burst  of  spring  sun- 

129 


I 


i 


THE   SOUL  OF  THE    STRJ-ET 


li 


y  I  ^.. 


'  ,  i 


i 


I  I 


shine  tempers  the  wind  ;  and  it  was  as 
though  ten  candles  were  a  hundred,  and  the 
crosses  glittered  with  the  light  of  very  Para- 
dise, and  the  faces  of  Son  and  Saints  shone 
with  love.  J'here  was  no  darkness  any  more, 
though  the  melancholy  light  of  day  faded 
into  deeper  dusk. 

Verily,  verily^  I  say  unto  you,  he  that  heareth 
my  word,  and  believeth  on  him  that  sent  me, 
hath  everlasting  life,  and  shall  not  come  into 
condemnation ;  but  is  passed  from  death  unto 
life.  Verily,  verily,  I  say  unto  you,  The  hour 
is  coming,  and  now  is,  when  the  dead  shall  hear 
the  voice  of  the  Son  of  God ;  and  they  that  hear 
shall  live.  For  as  the  Father  hath  life  in  him- 
self; so  hath  he  given  to  the  Son  to  have  life 
in  himself ;  and  hath  given  him  authority  to 
execute  judgment  also,  because  he  is  the  Son  of 
Man.  Marvel  not  at  this;  for  the  hour  is  com- 
ingy  in  which  all  that  are  in  the  graves  shall 
hear  his  voice,  and  shall  come  forth;  they  that 
have  done  good,  unto  the  resurrection  of  life, 
and — 

Atta  the  Wrestler  flung  himself  furiously 
against  the  wire    screen   that  shut  him   off 

130 


)/,, 


I',  , 


THE    UNDKR   SHKPHI.RD 

from  the  church.  The  high  words  of  Nikola 
Diebs,  proud  priest  of  the  Orthodox  Church, 
spoken  through  his  servant  Ahotanios,  had 
thrown  the  man  into  the  bestial  fury  of  pos- 
session (as  once  before  had  happened,  when 
he  crushed  a  man  to  death  in  his  arms) ;  for 
he  was  a  lover  of  raw  flesh,  and  had  no  mind 
above  his  passion.  He  had  opened  the  street 
door  below,  steal thfuUy,  and  crept  in  ;  had 
stood  silent  in  the  darkness  of  the  hall,  pant- 
ing ;  had  drawn  his  knife  from  his  sash  with 
an  eager  hand,  and  crept  to  the  top  of  the 
stair,  feeling  his  way  against  the  wall,  resting 
a  hand  on  the  steps  to  relieve  the  strain  of 
his  weight,  pausing  now  and  again  to  listen  ; 
had  waited  a  long  time  at  the  top,  hiding 
close  to  the  wall ;  had  reached  his  great  left 
hand  softly  to  the  knob  of  the  door  in  the 
wire  screen,  and  had  turned  the  knob  and 
found  the  bolt  shot ;  had  drawn  back  out  of 
sight,  and  tried  the  door  again,  vainly ; 
balked,  had  contained  his  passion,  through 
fear  to  vent  it  boldly,  until  his  heart  throbbed 
near  to  bursting,  and  blood  flushed  his  eyes 
and  sweat  ran  hot  from  crown  to  sole  ot  his 
great  body.  Then  he  had  leaped  from  the 
shelter  and  flung  himself  against  the  door; 

131 


§ 


T 


I  i 


vmii 


I 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

breaking  in  on  the  Pathcr's  fervent  reading 
with  a  thunderous  crash. 
The  screen  flung  him  hack,  bruised.  He  bit 
his  under  lip  until  the  blood  ran  down  his 
chin.  Froth  flecked  the  hair  around  his 
n^outh.  He  poised  to  :,pring  again  against 
the  door. 

— l/.>ey  that  have  done  evily  unto  the  resurrec- 
tion of  damnation. 

The  Father  had  turned  and  swept  to  the 
door.  He  perceived  Atta  poised  for  the 
spring;  the  light  striking  through  the  screen 
disclosed  the  wrestler's  frothy  lips  and  bloody 
chin  and  glittering  eyes.  The  man's  condi- 
tion stood  revealed;  "and  he  was  possessed 
of  a  devil."  The  Father  stood  stock  still, 
close  to  the  screen,  imperiously  confronting 
the  man  behind.  'Inhere  was  silence,  straineu, 
oppressive,  pregnant;  the  whimpering  of  the 
mother  of  Nageeb  had  ceased  of  deeper 
fright ;  the  last  echo  of  the  scream  from  the 
dispensary  had  died  away.  The  priest's  hand 
was  uplifted  ;  a  gleaming  cross  rose  above  his 
head,  behind;  shadows  encompassed  him. 
The  light  of  seven  candles  struck  him  from 


T 


THE   UNJ31:R  shephkrd 

behind  ;  his  thin,  white  rohe  wiis  ilhiinined 
into  the  semhhmce  of  the  insuhstantiiil  rai- 
ment of  the  Son  of  God  pictured  ascending 
through  riven,  sunlit  clouds.  Thus,  radiant, 
towering,  motionless,  he  stood,  while  the 
wrestler's  throat  dried  out  and  his  heart  grew 
cold  and  his  legs  weakened  and  shook  like 
crumbling  pillars  at  the  breaking  point. 
Suddenly  the  Father  touched  the  lock  and 
swung  the  door  wide ;  and  turned  his  back, 
and  walked  to  his  place  at  the  altar,  crying 
as  he  went : 

/  can  of  mine  own  self  do  nothing;  as  /  hear  I 
judoe;  and  my  judjrment  is  just ;  because  I  seek 
not  mine  own  zvill,  but  the  will  of  the  Father 
which  hath  sent  me.  ]f  I  bear  witness  of  my- 
self my  witness  is  not  true.  There  is  another 
that  beareth  witness  of  me ;  and  I  know  that 
the  witness  which  He  witnesseth  of  me  is  true. 

Atta  was  crushed  against  the  further  wall, 
where  the  shadow  was  deepest  and  the  space 
between  greatest;  he  was  gasping,  as  though, 
by  putting  forth  his  utmost  strength,  he  had 
flung  off  an  adversary — a  strong,  persistent 
adversary,  who    would    return    again.     His 

133 


1 


( 


\ 


'I 

41 


r 


ii 


I 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE    STREET 

great  breast  rose  and  fell  tumultuously ;  his 
breathing  sounded  like  the  swish-swash  of  a 
saw  when  the  log  is  near  in  twain  ;  his  thick 
lips  were  drawn  back  from  his  teeth,  and 
twitching  ;  his  dagger  hand  was  raised,  and 
shaking.  He  was  like  a  man  of  craven  heart 
waiting  for  the  onslaught  in  an  unchosen 
conflict — brought  to  bay.  Reason  returning, 
his  muscles  relaxed  ;  he  slunk  to  the  stair, 
keeping  his  front  to  the  altar ;  and  he  went 
out  as  steal  thfuUy  as  he  had  come ;  nor  was 
he  lurking  at  the  door  when  the  hearse 
moved  off;  nor  was  he  heard  of  in  the  Quar- 
ter any  more  after  that  night.  And  when  the 
lower  door  closed  after  him,  a  mocking  laugh 
rang  out  from  the  dispensary — a  mocking 
woman's  laugh,  touched,  even,  with  exultation. 


I'il 


'34 


T 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  REVOLUTION 


I 


V 

I'M 


k 


K 


li  i  i 


1^.  J  J.', 


j' 


ill 

i 


I 


THE   SPIRIT  OF  REVOLUTION 

HEN,  craftily,  peering 
in  fear  of  the  virago  of 
the  tenement,  old  Kha- 
lil  Khayat,  the  editor, 
peeped  in,  and,  reas- 
sured by  the  solemn 
quiet,  crept  to  the  cor- 
ner where  he  lay,  little 
Billy  Halloran  was  in 
rare,  sore  need  of  some  comfort  and  courage, 
— such,  perchance,  as  may  be  found  in  a 
hand  laid  on  the  head  in  tenderness,  be  the 
touch  ever  so  swift  and  diffident,  and  in  the 
sound  of  a  voice  speaking  softly  of  old,  far- 
away things.  Three  hours  ago,  Kawkab 
Elhorriah  had  gone  to  press  in  the  old  yellow 
building  near  South  Street,  where  Salim 
Shofi's  hard  money  gives  life,  daily,  to  the 
old  teaching  in  new  words.  Even  now, 
Nageeb  the  Intelligent,  Abo-Samara's  little 
son,  was  throwing  it  on  the  restaurant  tables 
of  Washington  Street,  from  Rector  to  the 
Battery,  crying,  "  Kawkab  I  News  of  a  Mo- 
hammedan outrage  in  Damascus  !  "  with  all 
the  importance  of  his  ten  years.  The  day's 
work  was  done,  so  Khayat  had  leisure  for  a 
kindly  deed ;  and  the  plea  for  it,  strong  as  a 


4 


■'tr, 


•  1 


A. 


m 


'1 


rr 


r 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

voice,  was  in  Billy's  bad  leg,  which  the 
tumbled  coverlid  disclosed — scrawny,  shining 
white  in  the  twilight,  like  a  misshapen  stalk 
of  sickly  cellar  growth.  1  will  write  no  more 
about  the  bad  leg,  nor  shall  the  responsibility 
of  the  medical  student  ever  be  set  forth  ;  for, 
even  as  Khalil  Khayat  has  written  :  Inhere  is 
a  wide  blue  sky  and  a  stagnant  gutter^  and  the 
eyes  of  men  move  freely  in  their  sockets ;  and  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  one  there  is  a  great  lift- 
ing up^  but  in  the  other  an  unprofitable  sickness 
of  soul.  All  of  which,  indeed,  has  nothing  to 
do  with  how  Mahaomed  Yassin  Sharift's 
knife-thrust,  in  Damascus,  laid  bare  the 
Spirit  of  Revolution  in  Washington  Street, 
but  cries  out,  piteously,  to  be  set  down. 
"Your  mother — where  ees  she?"  Khayat 
whispered  fearfully. 

"  Jagged,"  Billy  answered,  sighing  his  relief 
"  She — s-she  ees  not  here  ?  "  Khayat  asked. 
*'  Naw,"  was  the  reply,  in  a  thin,  frail,  weary 
voice.     "  She's  chasin'  de  duck." 
"  Ah,  eet  ees  good,"  Khayat  said.     He  sat 
down  with  some  assurance,  and  smiled. 

"  lister 


g^ 


story, 


Khayat?  "  Billy  wailed  from  the  shadow. 
Now,  Khayat  had  the  caress  and  the  story  to 

i3« 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  REVOLUTION 

stop  the  whimpering ;  and  no  man  knew  bet- 
ter than  this  old  one  the  worth  of  a  touch 
and  a  tale  in  the  twilight.  When  the  evening 
wind  rose,  cool  and  fresh  from  the  harbor, 
and  eddied  through  the  room  and  swept  the 
heated,  fetid  air  from  the  corner,  as  though 
seeking  out  first,  eagerly,  the  children  with 
whom  the  sun  had  dealt  cruelly,  Billy  rested, 
listening  in  lassitude  to  the  droning  voice, 
content,  forgetful.  Soon  his  eyelids  were  too 
heavy  for  him  ;  but  the  story  went  on,  in  a 
practiced  sing-song,  like  a  lullaby,  until  he 
fell  asleep,  and  there  was  no  sound  but  the 
soothing,  summer-night  murmur,  rising  from 
the  street.  Then  Khalil  Khayat  dropped  the 
hot  little  hand,  which  he  had  taken  up  re- 
gardless of  the  grime  ;  and  rose,  like  a  thief, 
to  steal  away  to  the  back  room  of  the  coffee- 
house of  Nageeb  Fiani,  to  hear  what  the 
people  had  to  say  of  the  writing  in  that  day's 
Kawkab  Elhorriah  concerning  the  licentious 
murder  of  Salim  Khouri's  brother  by  Ma- 
hoamed  Yassin  Shariff,  a  Mohammedan,  in 
Damascus  ;  for  the  writing  was  like  a  seed 
sown  with  anxious  care,  that  the  harvest, 
to  be  reaped  by  other  hands  in  the  far- 
away future,   might   be   Liberty — like  one 

139 


I 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE    STREET 


(  li 


'I  • 


^i 


■i( 


i: 


!r- 


seed  sown  hopefully  from  a  deep  bag. 
Billy  opened  his  eyes  ;  but  the  lids  closed 
again,  against  his  will,  for  he  was  very  weary, 
and  the  relief  of  the  evening  was  upon  him. 
"  Ain't  you  goin'  t'  come  back  no  more 
t'night?"  he  plainted. 

"  Have  you  not  sleep  ?  I  seet  down  more 
weeth  you,"  Khayat  whispered ;  but  Billy 
was  again  asleep.  "  I  am  come  back  soon," 
Khayat  went  on  ;  and  he  moved  to  go,  step- 
ping softly. 

"Ain't  y'u — fergit  —  de  —  flow'r  ?  "  Billy 
asked,  waking;  and  then  he  dozed  off  beyond 
light  disturbance. 

Ah !  in  his  unholy  eagerness  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  learning  whether  the  seed  was  to 
shrivel  or  take  sure  root,  Khayat  had  forgot- 
ten Billv''^  plant — the  twisted,  scrawny,  pale 
little  plant,  like  unto  Billy  himself,  that  then 
thirsted  on  the  fire-escape,  where  it  had  been 
put,  with  groaning,  by  its  lover,  in  the  after- 
noon. With  what  reproaches  did  Khayat  hurt 
his  heart  as  he  brought  it  in,  and  watered  it 
and  bathed  its  every  lean,  miserable  leaf,  and 
set  it  at  the  head  of  the  cot  to  comfort  the 
waking  eyes  !  Had  he  been  remiss  in  any- 
thing else?    He  scratched  his  head  and  puz- 

140 


III 


III 
\\  ft 


lii 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  REVOLUTION 

zled  his  absent  mind  ;  and,  having  thought 
long  and  distressfully  in  vain,  tip-toed  out, 
frowning,  self-reproachful,  for  in  the  sight  of 
Billy  Halloran  there  was  no  plant  like  that 
weakling,  and  in  the  heart  of  Khalil  Khayat 
no  self-justification  for  leaving  it  long  in  dis- 
comfort. So  the  regret  followed  the  old  man 
half-way  down  the  stair,  and  was  forgotten 
utterly  only  when  the  old-world  smell  of  the 
narghilies  and  the  noise  of  a  great  voice, 
raised  raspingly  in  exhortation  to  the  shed- 
ding of  blood,  even  the  sacred  blood  of  the 
Sultan,  shut  the  little  Irish  boy  and  all  the 
things  of  the  tenement  out  of  thought,  at  the 
door  to  the  back  room  of  Nageeb  Fiani's 
coffee-house,  where  the  Irish  never  go. 
"  •  .  .  written  ;  and  eye  for  an  eye,  a 
tooth  for  a  tooth  ?  "  Elias  Rahal  was  crying 
in  a  passionate  undertone,  in  the  finer  Arabic 
of  oratory.  "  Even  now  the  lamentations  of 
Salim  Khouri,  whose  brother  has  gone  to  the 
grave  in  blood,  sound  in  our  cars;  and  so 
great  is  the  noise  of  his  weepi.jg  that  men 
gather  in  the  street,  wondering  to  hear  it,  and 
the  pfeecemn  make  their  way  to  the  place 
where  he  lies,  even  to  the  six f  floor  of  the 
great  dwelling-place,  though  they  are  weary 

141 


It 


.( 


if 


(I  I 


:| 


*). 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

with  much  walking,  and  very  fat  and  im- 
portant    .     .     ." 

Khayat  halted  at  the  door  to  listen — eaves- 
dropping innocently;  verily,  as  men  say,  there 
was  no  guile  in  him.  He  sat  down  in  the 
darkness  of  the  middle  room,  at  the  door  to 
the  narrow  place  where  Elias  Rahal  sat  at 
the  round  table  with  four  others  ;  and  there 
was  a  smile  on  his  thin,  dark  face,  like  the 
smile  of  a  rapt,  expectant  child  in  the  dark- 
ened amphitheater  when  the  footlights  flare 
suddenly  against  the  great  curtain  and  a  burst 
of  music  announces  the  disclosure  of  the 
spectacle.  Such,  indeed,  was  the  character  of 
his  interest  in  the  shifting  passions  of  the 
people.  His  work  for  Liberty  was  higher 
than  their  hands  could  reach  to  help  or  hin- 
der: his  purpose  without  variableness,  past 
their  understanding,  solemn,  hidden  within 
his  heart,  laying  stone  upon  stone  of  a  Tem- 
ple which  the  hands  of  the  children  of  the  yet 
unborn  should  complete.  This  was  the  fan- 
ciful conception  with  which  he  cheered  his 
life ;  so  to  talk  of  the  people  was  a  passing 
bitterness  or  a  thrill  of  soul,  as  it  chanced. 
What  did  their  talk  matter  ?  He  would  sow, 
day  after  day.  What  was  the  loss  of  one  small 


142 


THE   SPIRIT  OF  REVOLUTION 


seed  from  a  deep  bag  ?  And  even  as  he  has 
written  :  /;/  the  autumn  the  harvest  is  gar- 
nered^ spite  the  wrath  of  a  {single)  day.  It  was, 
indeed,  all  a  play  ;  and  Khayat,  with  his  pen 
laid  aside  for  the  day,  was  like  a  child  look- 
ing  on — the  emotion  fading  with  the  falling 
of  the  curtain. 

"  .  .  .  the  shedding  of  Christian 
blood  to  continue  forever?"  Rahal  went  on 
with  deepening  passion.  "  Is  a  murderer  to 
be  forever  safe  against  justice  because  he  is  a 
Turk  and  a  Mohammedan  ?  Is  the  foot  of 
the  Sultan  Abdul  Hamid  never  to  be  flung 
from  the  necks  of  our  people,  but  is  the  heel 
of  his  iron  boot  to  tear  the  throats  of  our 
children's  children  ?  Is  it  forever  we  must 
suffer 

The  words  of  Rahal  were  lost  to  the  listener 
in  the  street  noises.  The  outer  door  was  open 
in  invitation  to  the  evening  wind;  but  Rahal's 
staccato  utterance  had  lifted  itself  clear  above 
the  outer  night-clatter — above  the  rattle  of 
the  truck-wheels  on  the  cobble  stones  and 
the  sound  of  the  drivers'  warning  cries,  above 
the  intermittent  roar  of  the  elevated  trains, 
and  the  buzz  of  gossip.  Now,  the  sportive 
children,    the    gutter-snipes    marched    past 

143 


'  I 


I  • 

I 


THE   SOUL  OF  THE   STREET 

in    whimsical,   riotous   procession,    singing : 

Hello,   mah  baby  ! 
Hello,   mah  honey  ! 
Hello,   mah  rag-time  gal  ! 
Send  me  a  kiss  b\'  wire. 
Honey,   mah  heart's  on  fire. 
If  you  refuse  me. 
Then  you  will   lose  Kie, 
An'   you'll  be  left  alone. 
Oh,   baby   telephone. 
An'   tell  me  I'm  yer  own  ! 

Khayat  had  been  absorbed  in  Rahal's  speech, 
eager,  like  a  critic,  to  rate  the  climax — the  form 
of  it,  the  ring  of  it;  but  there  was  no  anger  in 
his  heart  because  the  children  were  noisy.  He 
was  always  jealous  for  the  happiness  of  chil- 
dren,as  Nageeb  the  Intelligent,  Abo-Samara's 
little  son,  knew  well  before  he  died,  and  as  all 
the  little  people  of  the  gutters  will  tell  you 
to  this  very  day.  He  did  not  exclaim  im- 
patiently; he  reached  out  stealthfully  and 
pushed  the  door  to  the  little  back  room  ajar, 
that  he  might  hear  the  better. 
"  Hush-h-h,  Elias  !  "  came  from  within. 
"Hush!" 

"There  is  one  listening  at  the  door." 
There  was  silence — as  when  men  strain  their 

144 


J  r 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  RKVOLUTION 


ears  to  catch  a  warning,  for  their  very  lives* 

sake.       Khayat  was  still  as  a  statue;  and  his 

eyes  were  shining  like  the  eyes  of  a  roguish 

child  playing  at  hide-and-seek.     Ah,  he  is 

comparable  only  to  a  child — Khayat  is  !  The 

Spirit  had  taken  life  lease  of  a  corner  in  his 

heart ! 

"  No;  there  is  no  one  near." 

"  Go  on,  Elias.     It  is  very  fine." 

"If    my    enemy    should     hear?"       Rahal 

whined. 

"There  is  no  ear  to  hear — save  only  ours." 

There  was  a  second  period  of  listening,  which 

the    contemptuous    bubbling    of  a  narghile 

disturbed. 

"  Go    on,    Elias.      Our   hearts   are    in    our 

mouths,  where  your  words  have  sent  them 

leaping.     Are  we  to  choke  to  death?" 

"  Go  on,  Elias.  Who  is  to  shed  the  Sultan's 

blood,  did  you  say  ?  " 

Now,  they  speak  with  candor  of  dark  designs 

only  in  the  dark,  these  expatriated  Syrians  of 

lower   Washington    Street;    for    every    man 

sees  an   enemy  in  his    friend,  and,   though 

words  may  be  discreetly  chosen  and  softly 

spoken,  no  man,  as  it  is  written,  can  draw  a 

blind  over  his  eyes.     So  when  one  spoke  of 

H5 


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T/-     t;^ 


THi:    SOUL   OK   THI\   SlRlvl'/F 


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I  i 


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m     'I 


/         I 


the  Sultan's  lilood,  another,  as  though  afraid 
to  betray  the  jiallor  and  agitation  of  fear, 
turned  the  gas  to  a  pin's-head  llamc. 
Sliadows  —  secUision  ;  the  time  was  ripe  for 
hhickest  conspiracy.  I^'or,  perchance,  even 
as  chikh'en  ot  jtersuasive  imagination,  with 
the  swaggering  courage  ot  garret-clothes 
and  garret-guns,  when  the  Dusk,  deepening, 
veils  he  tace  of  the  garden  with  gray 
Mvstery,  enchanting  the  familiar  clump  of 
lilacs  into  a  rock\'  remlezvous  for  bandits 
and  all  the  shadows  into  shelter  for 
fearsome,  designing  shapes — even  as,  shiv- 
ering, round-e\  ed,  they  gather  close  and  plot 
red  death,  ilaring  the  beating  of  their  hearts 
and  the  mocking  shadows  ami  the  ganlen's 
uncanny  night-plaint,  so  do  these  simple  folk 
desperately  conspire.  The  illusion,  the  sluul- 
dering  thrill — they  are  the  same. 
"  Tell  us,  I\lias,  who  is  to  shed  the  Sul- 
tan's blood  ?  " 

"  It  shall  he  by  lot,"  Kahal  vyhisjtered ;  he 
bin\st  out,  thumping  the  table  at  each  wortl : 
"  So  shall  it  be  determined  by  whose  hand 
the  Sultan  is  to  die." 

"  Ah-h  !  "  This  was  a  sigh  of  relief — delight ; 
it  was  as  though   a   dark,   treacherous  path 

146 


I 


) 


Tin:  SIM  KIT  OF  REVOLUTION 

h:id  hccii  suddenly  Hooded  with  light. 
Khayat,  forgetting  himself  in  the  obscurity 
of  the  middle  room,  chuckled  explosiv^ely ; 
he  had  to  pinch  his  leg  very,  very  hard  to 
sober  himself— to  pinch  it  until  he  winced, 
which  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  do,  for  the  leo- 
was  very  lean. 

"  But  not  yet,"  Rahal  added,  knowingly. 
^' Where  and  how?   Tell  us,  O  KHas  T" 
There  was  a  confusion  of  sounds,  as  of  men 
drawing  close  to  a  table.     Khayat  could  hear 
them  push  the  coffee  cups  aside;  could  hear 
the  flimsy  little  table  creak  under  the  weight 
of  the  conspirators  as  they  leaned  upon  it  to 
get  their  heads  the  nearer  together.   He  gave 
his  leg  a  convulsive  pinch  and  cried  out  with 
the  pain  of  it. 
"What's  that?" 
"  It  is  the  table  groaning." 
"Ah!    !    thought — I    thought — is  there  no 
one  listening?   Are  you  sure?" 
"There  is  no  one." 

Rahal  stuttered  distractedly  :  "  L-let  us — 
t-t-first  revolt."  He  paused,  listening  in- 
tently ;  then  continued  in  a  lower,  surer 
voice  :  "  To  revolt  is  the  first  thitig.  Let  us 
unite   the   people  of  Washin'ton  Street  and 

147 


V'  1 


V  -     ■ 

r 


I  !( 


i. 


■i) 


\H 


THE   SOUL  OF  THE  STREE:T 

demand  of  Abdul  Hamid  the  freedom  of  our 
land.  If  he  denies  us,  let  us  rise  and  carry 
fire  and  the  sword  even  into  the  innermost 
palace  at  Constantinople.  Sadahala,"  he  con- 
tinued enthusiastically,  "  you  draw  up  the 
paper  for  the  Party  of  Liberty.   Have  all  the 

people  sign  it.   Then " 

"  Abo-Samara  has  more  skill  with  the  pen 

than  I,  and  more  learning.   Let  him " 

"  Sadahala,  my  friend,  you  honor  me  too 
highly,"  was  softly  interjected.  "  I  am  un- 
learned, and " 

Khayat  had  to  pinch  himself  again — this 
time  harder  than  before  ;  the  next  morning 
the  leg  was  blue  at  that  point,  as  he  glee- 
fully observed. 

"  I,"  was  heard  in  a  proud,  hoarse  whisper, 
"  will  draw  up  the  paper  and  pass  it  from 
hand  to  hand.  I — I — will  do  it." 
"  Ah  !  Who  can  do  it  better  than  Tanous 
Shishim  ?  Go  on,  Eli:is." 
"In  one  month,"  Rai.al  said,  "  the  Syrians 
of  Montreal  and  Philadelphia  and  all  the 
West  will  unite  with  us.  There  will  be  an 
army  of  three  thousand  men  gathered  in  N' 
York — strong  men,  great  in  might,  greater 
in  courage  and  patriotism.     We  will  say  in 

148 


t 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  REVOLUTION 

the  newspapers — the  American  newspapers — 
that  we  have  twenty  thousand  men  ready  to 
die  for  Liberty;    and  it  will  be,  indeed,  as 
though  there  were  twenty  thousand.     Who 
is  to  deny  our  words?     In  two  months  the 
news  will  be  carried  to    Beirout;  verily,  the 
rejoicing  will  be  very  great.    In  three  months 
It  will  be  spread  to  the  edge  of  the  desert, 
even  to  the  furthermost  parts  of  the  land. 
In  four  months  the  people  will  rise,  Christian 
and  Mohammedan,  kin  in  heritage,  brothers 
in  high  purpose;   and  they  will   arm  them- 
selves  with   sword    and    rifle   and   raise  the 
banner  of  the  Party  of  Revolution,  leaping 
to  the  trumpet-call  of  Liberty  as  to  the  cry 
of  one  risen  from  the  dead.     It  will  be,  oh 
men  —  it  will  be  the  great  Arabic  uprising  ! 
Then  will  a  great  fleet,  a  fleet  mighty  and 
invincible,  sail  from  these  shores  to  the  very 
gate  of  Constantinople,  and  a  great  army  will 
take  ship    from    N'  York,  an  army  of  the 

friends  of  Liberty,  an  army " 

"  What  fleet  and  what  army,  O  Elias  ?  " 
The  question  was  asked  in  tremulous  eager- 
ness. 

"  The  fleet  of  the   United    States  and   the 
army  of  a  free  people,"  said  Rahal. 

149 


...    jr 


V    't 


'        ;! 


•I      I 


'^      I 


^^'t| 


N       J 


? 


I- 


I ' 


THE   SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 

"Can  it  be  so  ?  " 

"  Is  it,  in  truth,  a  tiling  possible  ? " 
Khalil  Khayat  sighed.       The  pathos  of  the 
situation  was  clear  to  him ;  it  may  be  that  he 
sighed  because  the  great  uprising  was  a  mere 
mirage. 

"  Did  not  the  United  States  set  free  the 
slaves  of  Spain  in  Cuba?"  Rahal  said. 
"  Did  the  great  American  people  hesitate  ? 
Will  the  President  forsake  us  in  our  distress 
— forsake  us,  who  gave  our  sons  to  fight  his 
battles  ?  Let  us  send  the  Doctor  to  the 
President,  even  to  the  White  House  at 
Washin'ton,  to  set  our  prayer  before  him. 
The  Doctor — who  can  withstand  his  oratory  ? 
Is  there  a  more  learned  man  ?  Is  there  a 
man  more  used  to  intercourse  with  the  high 

and  noble  ?    Who " 

"  But  who  will  provide  the  Doctor  with  fare 

to  Washin'ton,  Elias  ?  " 

"  We  shall  need  much 

swered  dubiously. 

There  was   a   pause  in 

nervous  puffing. 

"  I  am  a  poor  man,"  one  sighed. 

"  And  I,"  sighed  the  second. 

"And  I,"  sighed  the  third. 

150 


money,"  Rahal   an- 
the  talk — vigorous. 


h 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  REVOLUTION 

"And  I,"  sighed  the  fourth. 
"  God,"  said  Rahal  in  humility,  "  has  favored 
me  also  with  poverty."  A  suggestive  silence 
followed.  "It  may  be,"  Rahal  pursued, 
speculatively,  "  that  the  friends  of  Liberty 
will  help  us.  The  Americans  are  very  rich  ; 
there  is  no  bottom  to  their  purses,  nor  any 
meanness  in  their  hearts.  Mm-m-m  !  Per- 
chance— who  knows — how  many  thousands 
o^  dollars ^  have  they  sent  to  the  Armenians  ? 
Tanous,  is  it  not  known  to  you  ?  Surely  they 
have  sent  millions  o^ dollars — millions — yes, 
truly— millions  of  dollars — to  the  Arme- 
nians." 

Rahal  came  to  a  stop  ;  the  sounds  of  puffing 
were  such  as  men  make  when  they  are  eager 
— dreaming  fast. 

"  If  God  give  me  strength,"  Tanous  Shishim 
said  solemnly,  "  I  shall  devote  my  talents 
to  the  labor  of  counting  the  money — my  life 

to  its  safekeeping — my " 

"  But,  Tanous,  I " 

"  You,  Tanous  !   Why,  I- 


"  It  may  be,"   Rahal  put  in   softly,  in  clear- 
cut,  hard  words,  "  that  five  guardians    are 
better  than  one.    Is  it  not  so  ?  " 
"It  is  even  so." 

151 


iJ 


J 


'7 


'a 


m 


\h 


THE    SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 

Khayat,  hearing,  flushed  for  his  race. 
"  Let  us  immediately  organize  the  Party  of 
Revolution,"  Rahal  pursued.  "  Here — in 
this  very  place,  let  us  do  it." 
"  It  is  a  small,  mean  room  to  be  so  honored." 
"  It  shall  be  remembered  forever.  When  we 
are  dust  men  will  say,  *  In  this  room  Liberty 
was  born  '  !  " 

"It  will  be  a  sacred  place." 
"  It  may  be  that  our  children's  children 
through  many  years  to  come  will  count  this 
table  more  precious  than  its  weight  in  jew- 
eled gold,  saying,  the  one  to  the  other,  'The 
hand  of  Elias  Rahal  rested  upon  it,'  or,  'Did 
not  Abo-Samara  the  Patriot  touch  it  with  his 
very  fingers  ?  Let  us,  also,  touch  the  holy 
thing.'  They  will  save  it — perchance,  even 
as  the  Americans  save  the  shoes  of  George 
Washin'ton,  that  great  Emperor,  counting 
them  above  price,  as  I  have  been  told." 
"  And  the  hand  of  Tanous  Shishim — what 
of  it  ^.  "  Tanous  growled  jealously. 
"  Even  so,"  one  added,  perfunctorily  ;  "  and 
the  hand  of  Tanous  Shishim  rested  upon  the 
table." 

"  Our  names  will   be  remembered  forever ! 
God  is  good  !    He  is  loving  and  wise  and 

152 


'   V. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  REVOLUTION 

just !  Who  would  not  lay  down  his  life  for 
Liberty  ? " 

"  Even  unto  death  will  we  persevere  ! " 
"And  henceforth  Liberty  shall   be  unto  us 
as  a  cloud   by   day   and   a   pillar  of  fire  by 
night,  leading  us,  even  as  it  is  written." 
"  Even  unto  death  !  " 
"  Ah-h-h  !  " 

There  was  a  tense,  solemn   pause,  as  of  a 
hushed    moment,  fraught    with    irrevocable 
consequences,  when  men— to  whom,  it  may 
be,  martyrdom  is  revealed  in  beauty ex- 
alted past  speech,  past  every  thought,  stand- 
mg  before    the    people  with    naked  hearts, 
dedicate    themselves    to    the  service  of  the 
Eternal  and   Most  High.     The  clatter  and 
snort  and  warning  shriek  of  a  fire   engine, 
and  the  voices  and  feet  of  many  children  as 
they  scampered  madly  in  its  wake  past  the 
outer  door    toward   Battery  Park,  sounded 
strangely  distant  and  insignificant,  like  wed- 
ding merriment  floating  from  over  the  way 
into  a  room  where  a  woman    lies   dead — a 
fluttering  vanity. 

"  Even  unto  death  !  "  Khalil  Khayat  sighed 
responsively. 

Knowing  the  hearts  of  men,  the  old  man 

^S3 


;l 


fl 


]] 


II 


r- 


THE    SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 

was  thrilled,  sympathetically,  to  the  marrow 
by  the  vow.  Enraptured  of  the  beauty  of 
Patriotism,  and  susceptible  to  distraction 
from  evil  suspicion  as  a  child  is  easy  to  turn 
from  frowns  to  smiles  with  a  bright  color,  he 
was  momentarily  lifted  above  doubt — swept 
into  high  forgetfulness  of  the  simplicity  and 
sham  of  this  conspiracy.  He  clasped  his 
hands  and  lifted  up  his  eyes;  and  for  him, 
then,  verily  the  darkness  was  given  to  reveal 
the  inspir  ^-  tender  face  and  benedictive 
gesture  of  the  Master  whom  he  served.  The 
rapture  beneficently  lingered,  providing  him 
a  little  dream  with  which  to  comfort  himself 
through  the  evil  hours  of  many  days  ;  and 
then  it  ebbed,  swiftly,  inevitably,  as  the 
ghastly  greed  of  the  conspirators  in  the  next 
room  forced  itself  into  his  consciousness 
again,  until  their  prostitution  of  the  Spirit 
plunged  him  in  a  despair  deeper  than  his 
ecstasy  had  been  high.  He  had  thought  he 
was  long  past  such  complaining;  he  had 
schooled  himself  to  sigh  and  say,  God  is 
good  !  Was  his  work  not  higher  than  the 
hands  of  these  men  could  reach  to  hinder  ? 
The  forgotten  depth  of  pain  raised,  as  a 
spirit,  his  Impetuous,  sensitive  youth,  when 


■> 


■  i; 


I  1 


in 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  REVOLUTION 

a  day  had  seemed  long  enough  for  a  sowing 
and  a  reaping,  and  he  had  kicked  stubbornly 
against  the  pricks.      He  saw  himself  a  lad  of 
wayward  ardor— in  the  old,  familiar  body- 
bent  upon  tipping  an  established  throne  with 
the  strength  of  his  own  arm  ;  and  he  wiped 
his  eyes  and  smiled  upon  his  old  self,  as  upon 
a  child  of  his  own,  and  fell  into  a  deep,  sweet 
dream,   forgetting,   for   the   time,   all    about 
Elias  Rahal  and  his  company  of  boasters. 
When  consciousness  of  time  and  place  came 
back  to  Khayat,  Tanous  Shishim  was  speak- 
ing;  as  he  had  spoken  many  times,  for  he 
had  only  one  speech  to  make,  and  men  knew 
it  by  heart,  so  often  had  they  heard  it  : 

•  •  •  Is  our  people  forever  to  suffer 
meekly  ?  Lo,  the  land  of  our  birth  is  as  a 
hell  upon  earth  !  Its  smoke  is  injustice  ;  its 
flame's  's  ravishment  and  the  shedding  of 
blood ;  its  lord  is  " — Tanous  discreetly  let 
his  voice  fall— "  the  Sultan  Abdul  Hamid. 
Out  of  their  —  their  bondage  d-do  our 
brothers  call  to  us;  morning  and  evening  do 
they  call  to  God  to — to — melt  our  hearts 
with — yes — compassion — that's  it."  Tanous 
was  now  in  a  rapture,  past  the  bounds  of 
reasonable  utterance;  he  continued  :  "Patriots 

^S5 


;  V- 


i^i 


II 


V 


m 


ft 


'i 


t  , 

15/ 


!f 


THE   SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 

has  arisen  after  long  sleeping ;  they  have — 
have  bust — yes,  bust  the  bonds  of  selfishness 
and  fear ;  and  the  people  cry,  all  men  of 
them.  *  The  night  is  over  ;  its  soldiers — 
surely  I  have  forgotten  it — yes,  its  soldiers 
fly,  its  banners  's  in  the  dust,  its  troops  's  re- 
treating ! '  In  freedom  shall  the  little  children 
sing  songs  of  us  ;  forever  shall  our  names  be 

set  in  printed  pages  ;  forever  shall " 

Khayat  had  sped  from  passive  attention  to 
high  wrath.  How,  save  in  anger,  could  he 
hear  violence  done  the  Language  Beautiful? 
Spirit  of  Beauty  !  It  was  like  a  foul  affront 
to  a  man's  well-beloved  in  his  very  presence. 
It  was  a  personal,  present  offense,  capable  of 
immediate  effect ;  and  Khayat  was  quick  to 
speak,  as  a  strong,  true  man  is  quick  to 
strike.  "  Stop  !  Stop  !  "  he  cried  in  a  sobbing 
passion,  throwing  the  door  wide.  "  You,  O 
Tanous  Shishim — you  an  orator  !  You  dare 
to  public  speech  !  Illiteracy  presuming  to  the 
highest  accomplishment  of  culture  !  A  pig  on 
a  throne  !  Lo,  I  speak  the  words — I,  even  I, 
Khalil  Khayat.  Is  it  so,  O  Tanous,  that  you 
are  a  graduate  of  the  American  College  at 
Beirout,  and  know  so  little  of  the  graces  of 
your  own  tongue  ?  Burst — not  bust,  Tanous  1 

156 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  REVOLUTION 

And,  in  the  name  of  God,  O  Tanous  Shi- 
shim,  are  you  an  old  man  and  still  ignorant 

of  th-   rule  that  a   noun   plural  is  never 

never,  O  Tanous,  to  be  followed  by  a  verb 
singular  ?  Agh  !  You  have  given  me  a  head- 
ache," he  cried,  putting  his  hand  to  his  fore- 
head.  "  I  shall  not  sleep  to-night  for  the  dis- 
cord  of  your  words.    Hear  me,  you  orator, 
and  learn  ! "  Khayat  struck  an  heroic  attitude 
that  went  grotesquely  with  his  old  clothes ; 
you   would   have  been   moved   to   laughter] 
but  the  splendid  passion  of  the  pose  and  the 
fire  flashing  in  the  old  eyes  set  their  nostrils 
quivering,     as     he    exclaimed,    sonorously: 
"'The  night  is  over;  its  banners   trail    the 
dust,^i^ts  hosts  are  retreating — aye,  its  heroes 
flee ! '  "     The   noise  in  the  common   room, 
where  many  men  were  passing  the  time  against 
the  hour   for    the   band   to  play  in  Battery 
Park,  subsided;   and   there  was  a  listening 
silence    for  a  time.     « Say  it  so,   Tanous," 
Khayat  gasped,  and  sat  down,  exhausted. 
No  man  spoke  one  word;  they  all  lingered, 
blissfully,  in  the  spell  of  the  words'  beauty.' 
"  How  wonderful  is  your  gift  of  speech,  O 
Khahl   Khayat ! "  Elias   Rahal  whispered  in 
deep  emotion  at  last. 


i 


n 


II 


% 

■A 


TWK  SOUL  OF  THE   STRI^KT 


"  It  is  given  of  God,  iind- 


Khayat  stopped  to  hearken.  Some  one 
came  swiftly  through  the  common  room — 
some  important  man  for  whom  the  people 
made  way  and  hushed  their  boisterous 
voices;  to  whom  they  gave  respectful  greet- 
ing: "May  the  day  close  in  happiness  for 
you !  May  all  the  blessings  ot  evening 
attend  you  !  "  It  was  the  Doctor  —  Salim 
Krtendi,  of  the  Faculie  de  Medecine  de  Con- 
stantinople— the  Doctor  himself,  than  whom 
there  was  no  greater  man  in  Washington 
Street;  he  of  the  threadbare  hauteur,  and 
rusty,  alien  high  hat  and  yellow  gloves  and 
militant  dignity,  who  would  sit  no  longer 
than  fifteen  minutes  by  the  watch  with  any 
man  of  the  Qiiarter,  save  only  Nageeb  Fiani, 
the  artist,  and  Khali!  Khayat.  He  burst 
into  the  little  back  room,  forgetful,  for  once, 
of  the  politeness  of  knocking;  then  they 
knew  that  some  great  thing  had  happened, 
and  their  hearts  stood  still.  "  Ho  !  "  he 
gasped.  "Yusef  Abo-Samara,  are  you  here? 
God  be  thanked  !  As  you  value  the  life  of 
your  father  in  Aleppo,  oh  my  friend,  whisper 
no  word  against  the  Sultan  this  night !  "  The 
Doctor  was  trembling;  his  eyes  were  bulging; 

158 


I 


'f' 


1:1         '11; 

III'' 


THK   SPIRIT  OF  RKVOLUTION 

his  high  h::(  was  toppling  shamelessly  over 
his  ear,  as  though  through  necessity  oVsuch 
haste  as  men  make  for  their  lives.  What 
was  the  danger?  ^:lias  Rahal  shivered. 
"  Ihe  sedition— it  has  been  spread  abroad," 
the  Doctor  went  on.  "  It  has  come  to  the 
ears  of  men  in  high  places,  even  to  the  ears 
of  the  Consul  in  N*  York.  By  the  sword 
and  the  shed  blood,  it  has  gone  higher!  "  he 
burst  out.  "The  Minister— the  very  Minis- 
ter from  Washin'ton  has  come." 
"Ah!" 

"Mercy  of  God  !  " 
*'  Is  there  no  help  for  us  !  " 
^'Mt  is  very  truth,"  the  Doctor  proceeded. 
"  Within  one  hour  he  will  be  in  the  meeting- 
room  of  the  Orthodox  Church  for  a  recep- 
tion. Hadji,  the  Consul's  servant,  has  but 
this  moment  left  the  dispensary,  having  over- 
whebned  me  with  the  news.  The  arrange- 
ments   are   in    my   hands,  by   order  of  the 

Consul.      It  is  for  me  to " 

"Doctor,"  Klias   Rahal   whimpered,  eagerly, 
"Am  I  not  your  friend  ?     Have  I  spoken  one 

word  of  enmity  against  you?  Have  I  not " 

"Doctor,    Doctor,"    Nageeb     Lufty     inter- 
rupted, whining.     "  I " 


I     I 


(I 


ji 


I' 


"  -{ 


( li 


I'hi 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE   STREIT 

"  Hear  me,  O  Doctor  Effendi,"  Tanous 
Shishim  cried,  pushing  young  Lufty  aside 
and  catching  the  Doctor  by  the  lapel  of  his 
coat.  *'  Have  I  not  always  said  that  you 
were  a  great  doctor  ?  Were  you  not  at  the 
bedside  when  my  first  wife  died?  Have  1  not 
paid  the  bill  without  complaining,  though  it 
was  the  greatest  bill  I  ever  saw — when  the 
sick  one  died  ?  Have  I  not  sent  you  hun- 
dreds, even   thousands,  of  patients,  naming 

your  name  as  the  great " 

"Elias,"the  Doctor  interrupted  impatiently. 


(C 


W 


hat- 


"Ah!"  Elias  cried.     "Am  1  bidden  to  the 

reception?     Tell  me — quick,  am  I " 

"Yes,  yes,  Elias,  you  are  bidden." 
Elias  exclaimed  joyfully,  and   hurried  away 
to  grease  his  hair  and  put  on  a  red  necktie. 
"And   I,"   Tanous    Shishim    said.     "I  am 

very  rich.     Am  I  not " 

"Yes,  Tanous;  and  you,  too,  Abo- 
Samara " 

"Doctor,"  Nageeb  Lufty  wailed,  "  I  named 
you  for  President  of  the  Society  for  Peace. 
J  have  cried  down  your  enemies.  Only 
yesterday  I  said  to  Nageeb  Eiani,  who  will 
bear  me  out  in  this  thing,  that  you  were  the 

1 60 


jf^\X'.rvM«    N«^_.A.  .^^  —rilt^ 


THE  SPIRIT  OK  RKVOLUTION 

greatest  doctor  in  the  world.      Is  my  love  to 

be  forgotten;  can  it  be " 

"  No,  no,  Nageeb.     You,  too,  are  bidden  to 
the  reception." 

Lufty    overtook    Tanous  at  the    door,  and 
whispered  in  his  ear,  privately:  "  Elias  Rahal 
is  not  our  friend.      Me  will  speak  evil  of  us 
in  the  ear  of  the    Minister.      Let    us  keep 
watch,    O    Tanous!"     Thereupon    Tanous 
Shishini  hurried  to  the  home  of  Klias  Rahal, 
and  whispered  in  his  ear,  privately:  "  Klias, 
danger  is  round  about  us.      Nageeb  Lufty  is 
our  enemy.  Let  us  stand  close  to  the  Minis- 
ter, lest  he  speak    evil    against   us."     And 
when   Tanous   had  gone,  Klias   Rahal  went 
through    fhe    street,  searching    for    Nageeb 
Lufty ;    and  when   he    had    found    hini",  he 
took   him   aside  and   whispered   in  his  ear, 
privately :  "  Nageeb,  it  is  in    the    heart   of 
Tanous  Shishim  to  destroy  us.   He  will  speak 
evil  of  us  in  the  ear  of  the  Minister.    Let  us 
keep  at  his  side  that  we  may  hear  every  word 
that  he  says;  for,  surely,  if  we   do   not,  he 
will  speak  evil  and  destroy  us."   Then  Elias 
Rahal  and   Nageeb  Lufty  and   Tanous  Shi- 
shim each  determined  in  his  heart  to  speak  in 
the  ear  of  the  Sultan's  Minister  for  himself, 

i6i 


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) 


/   I 


pf 


1^1-  > 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE    STREET 

that  they  might  gain  some  advantage,  the 
one  over  the  other. 

Abo-Samara  went  home  for  a  tarboosh,  the 
badge  of  loyalty,  leaving  the  Doctor  alone 
with  Khalil  Khayat  in  the  little  back  room. 
The  Doctor  hesitated  at  the  threshold. 
'*  Khalil — "  he  began,  uncertainly.  He 
paused.  He  cut  a  loose  thread  from  the 
finger-tip  of  his  glove  with  his  teeth,  and 
spat  it  out  nervously.  It  would  have  been  a 
fragment  of  the  nail  had  the  hand  been  bare. 
Thrice  he  essayed  to  speak ;  thrice  the 
courage  of  his  kindly  intent  failed  him.  He 
turned  resolutely,  as  if  to  go ;  but  held  his 
step,  looking  over  his  shoulder.  "  Khalil,'' 
he  said  hoarsely,  facing  desperately  about. 
"  I — I — am  your  friend.  I  have  no  heart  to 
slight  you  before  men.  It  is  an  honor — it  is 
a  high  honor  in  the  sight  of  men  to — to  kiss 
— the  hand  of  the  Sultan's  Minister."  The 
Doctor  paused  again;  and  Khayat,  recalling 
his  smiling  thought  from  the  recent  situation, 
turned  his  glance,  seriously,  to  the  Doctor's 
wavering  eyes.  "You,"  the  Doctor  went  on, 
"you,  too,  are  bidden,  even  as   an    honored 

guest,  to  the  Minister's  reception  ;  and " 

"  1  ?  "     Khayat   asked,  in    solemn    wonder. 

162 


\ .. 


THE    SPIRIT  OF  REVOLUTION 

"  As  an  honored  guest,  Khalil,"  the  Doctor 
answered  hurriedly.  "  No  man  will  miscon- 
strue  " 

"And  have  you  not  known   me  for  seven 
years?"  Khay at  said  with  gentle  reproof. 
"Yes,  O  Khalil.     Seven    years    of  sweetest 

intercourse  have  we " 

"And  is  my  heart's  enmity  a  stranger  to  you?" 
The  Doctor  looked  at  the  floor,  saying  noth- 
ing ;  but  at  last  he  cried,  pleading  his  own 
justification:   "I   have  a  mother  in   Beirout 

What  am  I  to  do  but " 

"  Ah,"  Khayat  interrupted,  holding  up  his 
hand.  "Am  I  a  judge  of  men?  No  man  is  an 
offense  to  me  because  of  his  sin.  Who  am  I 
that  I  should  condemn  it?  I,too,havesinned." 
He  went  on,  wearily,  absently:  "I  have 
thought — I  am  not  sure — it  maV  be— that  it 

IS  counted  as  righteousness   to  'dissemble 

sometimes  —  for  a  woman's  sake.  I  have 
sinned  deeper  than  that— for  a  woman— my 
sister's  sake."  He  had  slowly  thrust  his  right 
hand  out  from  him  over  the  table,  and  had 
averted  his  face  from  it;  now,  it  was  at  the 
limit  of  his  reach,  and  he  was  working  the  fin- 
gers against  one  another,  as  though  they  were 
offensively  wet  and  sticky.      He  turned  his 

163 


i 

I 


i 
'.t 


H 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE    STREET 

face,  and  looked  upon  the  hand  with  half- 
closed,  contemptuous  eyes,  as  though  it 
were  a  loathsome  thing ;  then  he  averted  his 
face  again,  sharply,  and  groaned.  "  I  have 
shed  blood — for  my  sister's  sake,"  he  whis- 
pered, vacantly  ;  and  repeated  :  *'  I  have  shed 
blood.  1 — have — shed — blood."  The  flar- 
ing gas,  the  dingy  wall-paper,  Fiani's  violin, 
the  Doctor — all  faded,  as  in  a  mist ;  and  in 
their  stead  he  saw  a  stretch  of  sand,  covered 
by  the  night,  and  a  man  creeping,  creeping 
toward  a  black  clump  of  trees. 
The  Doctor  caught  the  guilty  right  hand  in 
both  of  his  and  pressed  it  hard  ;  and  then 
he  went  out  quickly  into  the  noisy,  seething 
night-life  of  Washington  Street  near  the  soap 
factory. 


/ 1; 


"  'Ave  y'u  come  back  ?  "  said  Billy  Halloran, 
a  touch  of  reproach  in  his  weak,  thin  voice, 
when  Khalil  Khayat  glided  in.  "  Y'u  bin 
gone  a  hell  of  a  w'ile,"  he  added,  plaintively. 
"  I  am  come  back,"  Khayat  whispered.  "  I 
am  go  out  no  more  to-night."  He  was 
conscious  of  a  selfish  neglect.  "  Eet  have 
grow  very  dark  here,"  he  added.     He   felt 

164 


THE  SPIRIT  OF   REVOLUTION 

the  way  to  the  window,  and  sat  down  where 
the  breeze  might  dry  and  cool  his  brow ;  his 
heart  stilled  its  revilings,  now  that  Billy  lay 
quiet,  comfortable  in  the  companionship  re- 
stored. 

"It's  nice  an' cool,"  said  Billy. 

Khayat  made  no  response ;  but  quavered  a 

strange,  tearful  air,  in  an  absent  way. 

"  Ain't  dey  ready  t'  lick  de  Sultan  ?  "  Billy 

asked,  feeling  for  the  cause  of  the  old  man's 

sadness. 

"  No,"  Khayat  said  slowly  ;  "  they  have  not 
become  ready — yet." 
"  Ain't  dey  never  goin'  t'  fight .?  " 
"Some  day  the  people  they  weel  fight." 
"Yaller,  ain't   dey?     Dey    ought    t'  hump 
demsel's." 

"  When  the  flesh  eet  have  drop  from  my 
bones,"  Khayat  said,  struggling  obdurately 
with  the  language,  to  convey  the  beauty  of 
his  thought,  '  then  well  they  have  draw  the 
sword.  An'  een  the  blow  weel  the  strength 
of  my  dead  arm  be." 

"I  do' know — I  do'  know  w'at  y'u  mean," 
Billy  said,  listlessly. 
There  was  a  long  silence. 
"  We  bot'  got  our  troubles,"  said  the  boy, 

i6s 


] 


THE   SOUL  OF   THE   STREET 

with  a  sigh.  "  1  got  me  bad  leg,  an'  you  can't 

make  dem  fight." 

"Ah,"    Khayat  said   tenderly,   "  I    have   no 

trouble  so  great  as  yours."      He  bowed  and 

smiled,  as  though  making  a  compliment. 

"You  got  de  hardes'  luck." 

"Ah,  no  ! " 

"  I  bet  y'u  y'u  got  de  hardes  luck.      I  got  a 

nickel  in  me  clo'es,  an " 

Eet  I   have  a  heart  more  heavy,  eet  ees  be- 
cause I   am  an  old,  foolish  man,  and  all  the 
wisdom  of  children  eet  ees  yours." 
"  1   do'  know,"  Billy  said,  blankly.     "I  feel 
better,  anyway." 
There  was  another  lonfj  silence. 
"  I  guess  ril  go  to  sleep,"  said  Billy.  "  Good- 
night, Mister  Khayat.   Dey'U  fight  fer  y'u — 
some  day — er — I  will — w'en  I  grow  up — an' 
me  leg — gits — better." 

Billy  was  asleep;  so  Khalil  Khayat  went  to 
his  own  room  across  the  hall,  in  the  happy 
consciousness  that  the  boy  was  loosed  from 
the  discomfort  of  the  body  for  the  time.  He 
groped  his  way  to  his  old  chair  with  a  light 
heart.  He  reached  lovingly  for  the  big  black 
book  wherein  the  thoughts  of  Abo  Elola 
Elmoarri  are  set  down,  to  hold  it  in  his  hand 

i66 


i 


'i     i! 


THE  SPIRIT  OF   Rl.VOLUTION 

for  the  comfort  and  companionship  in   the 
touch  of  it ;  and  he  looked  out  from  the  dark- 
ness of  his  room  into  the  pale  night-light — 
into  the  depths  of  the  wide,  jeweled  sky,  out 
of  which   pure  serenity   descends  upon   the 
sons  of  men  as  a  dew;  nor  did  the  murmur- 
ings  of  the  great  city,  nor  the  stench  of  its 
wickedness,   nor  the   echoes   of  the   night's 
faithlessness    oppress    him,    for    they    were 
offenses  afar  off.  This  he  thought  concerning 
the  writing  in  that  day's  Kaivkab  Elliorriah, 
molding  the  plastic  words  in  forms  of  beauty, 
even  as  Abo  Elola  Elmoarri  did  in  his  time: 
"A  field  of  wheat  is  from  the  seed  of  a  sheaf 
What  is  one  wasted  seed?   My  arm  is  strong 
for  another  sowing.      Early  and  late  will   I 
sow,  that  the  harvest  may  be  bountiful.   And 
it  is  more  honorable  to  sow  than  to  reap  ;  for 
he  who  reaps,  reaps  in  certainty  that  which 
another  has  sown  in  hope,  and  he  who  sows, 
sows  unselfishly,  not  knowing  that  he  will 
reap.  When,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  the  blow 
is  struck,  the  strength  of  my  arm  will  be  in 
It,  though  the  fiesh  be  fallen  in  fine  dust  from 
the   bones    and    my    name   remembered    no 
more."      He    clutched   the   big   black  book 
tighter — pressed  it,  even,  against  his  heart ; 

167 


■f 


:•  1 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  STREET 

perchance,  it  was  to  establish  himself  in  his 
philosophy.  At  last,  vehemently,  he  said  to 
himself:  "And  concerning  blessedness  this  I 
know — know  for  truth,  though  it  be  all  I 
have  wrested  from  the  eternal  in  a  long  life 
— that  it  is  more  blessed  to  lighten  the  life  of 
a  child  than — than — any — other — thing." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair — and  nodded 
— and  smiled — and  nodded,  and  fell  gently 
asleep,  like  a  child ;  for  he  was  an  old  man, 
and  used  to  the  world's  hard  knocks. 


i68 


his 

I  to 
is  I 

II  I 

life 

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> 

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lan. 


